Like so many before me, the stupid stunt award is a recurring event. Secretly, I hope the academy will nominate me for the stupid stunt lifetime achievement award. I’ve worked hard at perfecting my craft.
So, I’ve been holding back to make sure that I am in good company….seems to be pretty safe. Here goes…
18 years old, just graduated from high school 2 days ago, long haired hippie looking, legally certified adult with a serious party-boy attitude. Time for a road trip.
I loved motorcycles. Easy Rider provided my highest cinema influence. Yep, that’s the adventure for me. I worked since I was 15 years old, so I broke open my piggy bank and bought the most bike I could afford; a used Honda 350. This would be my trusty steed as I planned my freedom tour to New Orleans and beyond. (this would also be a stupid stunt in of itself as a loaded down Honda 350 was definitely not the bike-du-jour for a long distance tour….Perfect!).
4 weeks allocated, $400 cash in my pocket, an orange 2-man pup tent and sleeping bag strapped to a sissy bar. My only riding companion was Rand McNally…gimme the open road!
I left Chicago and headed for Bull Shoals in Arkansas, back to Memphis, the Great River Road all the way to Nawlins. Across the Florida panhandle to Tampa and across to Daytona. Nothing was stopping me…except…I ran outta money. I’m sleeping in a pup tent in Daytona with $20 in my pocket and no credit cards. Enough money for gas and a couple of donuts. Oh man, I gotta git home without losing face….only one answer.
I rode straight through, non-stop, from Daytona Beach to Chicago. 22 hours of manly determination with one goal in mind; there’s no place like home. Only one blip. Somewhere just south of Indianapolis, on I-65 (4 lane, divided highway) right about rush-hour.….I fell asleep. 65 MPH in leather boots and jacket AND A HELMET, I actually closed my eyes and nodded off. When they re-opened a second later, I was still going 65 MPH but the bike was laying flat on the expressway and I was perched on top, sitting on the side of the red hot engine and spinning down the right lane in a dream. This dream, perhaps nightmare, was punctuated by only one memory; a pair of Winnebago headlights flashed by my eyes with each revolution. About halfway into my slide, I realized my butt was on fire. I kicked off and went into a human barrel roll in the passing lane. Then it all stopped.
Traffic stopped in both directions on I-65. I laid there and watched as truck drivers stopped on the other side of the highway and ran across the grass median to help scrape me up. The family in the ‘bago ran up and asked me the obvious; “are you OK?”. I twitched a little, then stood up and brushed myself off. My only response was “What happened to my bike?” as I spotted it, slid over onto the shoulder and not quite right. They immediately hustled me back to the Winnegago for first aid. The RV was the Grand Marshall at the head of the stopped rush-hour parade on I-65, all waiting to see what happened to the sleeper biker guy. Leather boots scraped and burnt thru, abrasions on the blue jeans, wide leather belt severely scraped (prized snake-head belt buckle unscathed…whew!), leather jacket scraped and burnt thru the shoulder, helmet scuffed and dinged. Bodily injuries? My right hand knuckles suffered severe road rash; the ‘bago family taped ‘em up good. I emerged from the RV to meet the State police. I told them the short version of my story as we walked back to my twisted steed. I stood up the Honda and quickly examined the damage. The only noticeable change was the handlebars pointed straight when the front tire pointed sharp left. My Mr. Fixit instincts kicked in. I’ve been here many times before, ever since I learned to ride a bicycle. I stood in front of the bike, facing it with the cocked front wheel firmly hugged between my legs. I grabbed the handlebars, giving them a sharp corrective twist. Hey, it worked! Not perfect, but pretty straight. I walked around, lowered the pedal on the kick-start, and she fired right up.
I re-mounted my trusty little Honda steed and bid adieu to my newfound friends. They stood slack-jawed as I pulled in the clutch, clicked first gear, and lead off the I-65 parade in a triumphant display of luck and stupidity.
