You Can’t Keep a Biker Down (Green Grass and High Tides)
It was a good Father’s Day weekend. Four hundred miles in two days going wherever we wanted or ended up. Not a record for me by a long shot, but just a good weekend.
Judy and I set our sights on a town just north of Pittsburgh Pa. that carries the name of simply… “Beaver”. We had passed through this town several times on our way to the Pittsburgh airport and vowed to return to try the cuisine of a Thai restaurant. Judy and I are both fans of Pad Thai., So we pointed the bike in a southwest direction and followed Route 68. If we didn’t make it or changed our minds, so be it. It was a little over one-hundred and seventeen miles one way if you count a couple of wrong turns.
The weather was mid-seventies with partly cloudy skies. I was in my zone with my wife of forty years to lean back on, I could clear my mind and enjoy the music of the bike and the soft whispered calling of the road.
It wasn’t long before a song floated into my mind. It is a song about those that have gone before us. Singers and song writers that reappear in our hearts and minds and perform for us again. “Green Grass and High Tides Forever” by The Outlaws is a song I once fell in love with as a teenager growing up in the seventies. I have been a fan of classic Southern Rock ever since. The Outlaws, Blackfoot with their classic “Highway Song”, Molly Hatchet, Allman Brothers, and .38 Special, just to name a few.
But today, instead of singers and songwriters, I thought about those that I have said “Goodbye” to. Mom and dad, my friend Wizard and all the others, but specifically Dad and Wiz. Dad with his love for adventure as a young man. A love I too embrace. And Wiz who shared a love of motorcycles with me.
I believe that it was Dad’s love of adventure that he tolerated my love of motorcycles and motorcycle adventures and I believe that was the reason he sometimes just smirked and shook his head at some of the mishaps Wiz and I would blunder into. Just as I have shaken my head and smirked at my own son’s blunders while Judy worried endlessly. Just as my mom worried about me.
During my fifty-three years of two-wheeled adventures I have taken my share of tumbles while riding. Most have been on the trails during times of distraction or miscalculation and those times when a dose of machismo mixed with a cup of young teenage bravado cloud all rational thinking.
It was early April of 1971 and I had just taken possession of my Honda SL-70 just a week or two prior. I was eager to ride and experience my newfound freedom. The little motorcycle could take me places better and faster than my Tecumseh powered minibike ever could. Afterall, it had gears, a working clutch and a real motorcycle motor! But probably best of all it was red. Not only my favorite color but the color of the motorcycle of my boyhood hero.
So, Wiz and I plotted our first of what would be many motorcycle rides in a place and surrounding that became our war room for deciding upcoming rides, study hall.
Wizard had not yet talked his dad into his own SL-70 and was still riding his Honda Z-50 (a.k.a. Mini Trail) for the first month or so after I had mine.
We had not yet discovered the many trails in our area that lay hidden in the woods and strip mines. So, we decided that we would try out a couple of small hill climbs and jumps that were popular near me.
Wiz and I were well into the afternoon when we decided to switch bikes. Wizard seemed to take to my bike easily. Me, on the other hand, not so much with his.
We both decided to take it easy with each other’s machine and start off by going up the easiest of the jumps and I was to go first.
So off I went on Wiz’s little Honda 50. I started up the jump in second gear but about halfway up the little bike started to bog down. Being used to the shifting of my bike, I shifted down to go into first gear. But on the Z50 shifting down put the bike into third and I stalled out in the middle of the hill.
I had not yet learned the necessary trail riding skills and started rolling backwards, rapidly! The handlebars turned and the bike rolled over top of me, and together we rolled, flipped, and slid to a stop at the bottom.
I laid there for a short time to get my wits back while Wiz franticly checked over his bike for any damages before asking if I was ok. (Priorities were in place back in those days.)
After finding no damage to his machine I finally stood up to get my own damage report. Other than some frazzled nerves, I thought I was ok also. Then I felt something running down my right leg.
I slowly lifted my pant leg up to reveal a deep and long puncture wound. The chain tension screw had somehow punctured my leg during our down hill wrestling match and blood was pouring out. There was blood and small pieces of flesh stuck to the tension screw and I felt sick.
The Honda shop was just down the trail a few hundred yards, and we rode there to seek first aid.
The owner’s wife, Fay, cleaned up the wound and put a butterfly bandage on it. But the blood kept coming. She ordered us to go home immediately and get medical attention.
There was no way I was going to fess up to this since both bikes were damage free and knowing full well such a mishap as this would mean some sort of sever penalty.
So, once I got home, I did the only thing I could think of. I wrapped the leg with old rags. Yes, dirty old rags. Several layers of them!
It was about supper time and dad was home. I don’t remember just what mom had made, but I wasn’t hungry. The rags were getting soaked by then and my leg was beginning to throb. Mom and dad sensed something was wrong.
So, with the rags getting saturated and dripping, I had to fess up. I told the whole story truthfully, figuring that since it wasn’t my bike and there was no damage to Wiz’s, the penalty might be lessened. And if I had been on my bike, I would have made it up the easy hill. It was the logic of youth.
Seeing the blood-soaked rags, mom went into panic mode. Dad inquired as to the amount of grey matter I had used for both the accident and the use of old rags as bandages. I gave the universal excuse kids use the world over in times like this “I don’t know…”
Supper was cut off right after the blessing was said and dad and I went to the emergency room.
The attending physician stopped the bleeding and gave me a shot of antibiotics to help prevent infection. He told dad that he did not want to stitch up the wound since it had been roughly six or seven hours since the incident and any foreign material that may be deep inside would be sewn into the wound. He also told dad to keep an eye out for infection and that I was to stay off the leg and bike until it heals. Once home dad repeated the doctor’s orders and asked me if I understood.
The next day, after dad went to work, Wiz and I were riding.
I had written a story some time ago about the time Wiz and I decided we could take the winter no longer and went for a ride. I will refresh your memories.
It was a cold winter day with winds blowing and bone chilling cold. Wiz and I were on our SL-70’s cutting trails through some fresh fallen snow. I had hit two separate patches of ice and both times I went down hard. Damage to my bike was minimal but my right side glutinous maximus took the brunt of the falls before Wiz and I decided that riding in such conditions might not be the best of things to do on such a miserable day.
The next few days my right glutinous turned a psychedelic cascade of colors. Black, blue, green, and yellow were what I could see in the mirror and my butt hurt badly. The following weekend Wiz and I were riding.
About a year and a half ago I suffered nerve damage and back pain, and I went to physical therapy for help.
I explained my condition and symptoms to the physical therapist and told him it hurt to even walk upright. We talked about different strategies and exercises I would be doing. After he finished explaining everything, he said… “Don’t worry, we’ll get you walking upright again.” To which I told him… “This is March, I’m not worried about walking. Just get me on my Harley before riding season starts”.
He thought I was joking; I wasn’t.
HAPPY FATHER’S DAY DAD! You done did good and we all miss ya.
Long Lonesome Highway 