THE MINI BIKE.
For those that don’t believe in the Christmas Miracle. I introduce to you, the 1977 MTD Trail Flite mini bike. We had moved to the wilds of Florence that year. Oakdale Street was our new stomping grounds. We had a 3 acre plot and lots of trails to ride on. The neighborhood had lots of kids so we rode our bikes though the woods.We built forts out of tree limbs, borrowed lumber and stolen bricks. Some of these forts were on the banks of ditches and in the old oak trees. We played Army like we were in Vietnam but it was closer to the Battle of the Somme. We had all watched The Green Berets with John Wayne and had not yet been forced to read All is Quiet on the Western Front.
Evidently when placing his order for spring 1978 lawnmowers, Daddy spotted this gateway to the Hell’s Angels, mini bike. Powered by a pull crank 3.5 horsepower Tecumseh engine, riding on some lawn mower tires and lacking a complicated clutch, you just twisted the right hand throttle and took off like Evil Knievel about to jump the fountains at Caeser’s Palace in Las Vegas.
How Daddy convinced Momma I needed this is one of the world's mysteries? Like the Nazca drawings on the desert floor of Peru or how Silly Putty works. But it arrived Christmas morning along with a matching helmet. And like some middle eastern torture, I barely got to ride it before we had to load up and join Mom’s family for Christmas Day lunch.
I loved those Christmas Day meals. Even at that early age, I loved the turkey and dressing and all the other food that accompanied it. But that year and then a later year when I got the Atari 2600, I just wanted to stay home and enjoy the gifts that the fat man had somehow gotten down the chimney that was pretty small and usually had a fire going on Christmas Eve night.
For several years a table full of good food would be enough to get me to leave my GI Joes, Hot Wheels track or train set. But over the years, I like being at home on Christmas Day. Let the girls stay in their pajamas and eat leftovers. Because of the pandemic, we were home yesterday and we all enjoyed it.
The mini bike was everything a little Honda CT50 was not. It was slow, cheap, rough and sat low to the ground. The wide little tires gave it a turning radius of a pickup truck. It was heavy and it was slow. That meant when you tried to imitate Evil Knievel, you would always fail. Too heavy to pop a wheelie and too slow to get enough speed to clear the ramp. That doesn't mean it wouldn't kill you.
You could still center a pine tree, fall over in the middle of the street, hit the bumper of a pickup and get close lined by a sweetgum branch. I still have the mark on my right arm where I fell over and burned my arm on the exhaust pipe. At some point, the helmet was just left in my Dad’s shop. He resigned to the fact that helmet or not I was going to die on the thing and it would be his fault. I had been and would always be a momma’s boy, this was his first attempt to break me away from her protection.
My buddies and I would ride that little bike all over the woods surrounding the neighborhood and down into Eastwood that connected to Oakdale Street. Down in Eastwood lived some twin boys, they were being raised by a single mom. They had a go cart powered probably by the same Tecumseh engine and we would race around. The twins knew all kinds of stuff. They had Playboy magazines, listened to Led Zeppelin and taught us how to sniff gas. Like kids in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, we would huddle around breathing in leaded 86 octane out of my little blue mini bike that Santa Claus brought me…
That was about as far as my drug life took me. Even though the twins, a mix between Tony Montana and Jeff Spicoli, would have weed, alcohol and certainly worse later on. When we were all in Junior High, I was befriended by the McLaurin Marajuana Mafia. 3M were mostly made up of Richland kids. I was stuck in PE with them which was pretty cool because the coaches left us alone for the most part. We played some great kickball and they told me all about the girls on the opposite side of the gym. When they found out I knew the twins, these professional dopeheads told me to stay clear of them. They were just out of control…
The little mini bike would continue to roll up and down the street, getting harder and harder to crank. You could pull the crank and hour somedays and it would do nothing. The next moment, it would fire right up and just haul ass away from you because you were twisting the throttle too far when you cranked it. At some point the frame broke, from too many attempted jumps over dirt piles or crashes.
The chain literally ate through the frame. Dad would haul it to work to get Culley to try to repair it. And off we would go again. Riding by the twins, but not stopping. We wanted to ride till the fuel was gone, not snort the fumes. The bike would just lay inside the shop or shed. Mostly in the way. Going months till it would crank and make another run by the twins. One time, I drove by them and shot them the bird and hauled ass. Like the US Marshals would probably do to them later on, they tracked me down, hiding in one of my buddies Mom’s closet and drug me outside and hit me. The Tony Montana coming out in both of them.
At some point the mini bike was just sitting out in the elements. Dead. Berry was at the house. helping Daddy cut wood or spread St. Augustine grass. Daddy would always be on the lookout for St. Augustine that was fixing to be dug up for a new building site. Much of the grass around the house on Oakdale Street had come from a new McDonald's location on the corner of Hanging Moss and Northside Drive in Jackson. Berry and Dad finished up that afternoon, had a few Coors and Fritos and then Berry got some cash and a free mini bike. He would take it home and get it running again. His brothers, kids, cousin and friends would drive it around Westland Plaza and surrounding neighborhoods.
A week ago, a customer was telling me about his nephews getting four wheelers for Christmas. I thought about my Daddy rolling the blue minibike in the house, my mom threatening him if it leaked oil onto the new carpet or if I killed myself on it. He told her I would be fine and anyway they had Ginny at that point. They had a spare. My mom worried about me pulling out in front of a school bus and dying the same way our French poodle had. My dad was not worried at all because he bought me that helmet. I hope those two with their new four wheelers make some good memories with their mom and dad. But I hope they stay away from the twins. Sniffing gas is not the best way to get high....
For those that don’t believe in the Christmas Miracle. I introduce to you, the 1977 MTD Trail Flite mini bike. We had moved to the wilds of Florence that year. Oakdale Street was our new stomping grounds. We had a 3 acre plot and lots of trails to ride on. The neighborhood had lots of kids so we rode our bikes though the woods.We built forts out of tree limbs, borrowed lumber and stolen bricks. Some of these forts were on the banks of ditches and in the old oak trees. We played Army like we were in Vietnam but it was closer to the Battle of the Somme. We had all watched The Green Berets with John Wayne and had not yet been forced to read All is Quiet on the Western Front.
Evidently when placing his order for spring 1978 lawnmowers, Daddy spotted this gateway to the Hell’s Angels, mini bike. Powered by a pull crank 3.5 horsepower Tecumseh engine, riding on some lawn mower tires and lacking a complicated clutch, you just twisted the right hand throttle and took off like Evil Knievel about to jump the fountains at Caeser’s Palace in Las Vegas.
How Daddy convinced Momma I needed this is one of the world's mysteries? Like the Nazca drawings on the desert floor of Peru or how Silly Putty works. But it arrived Christmas morning along with a matching helmet. And like some middle eastern torture, I barely got to ride it before we had to load up and join Mom’s family for Christmas Day lunch.
I loved those Christmas Day meals. Even at that early age, I loved the turkey and dressing and all the other food that accompanied it. But that year and then a later year when I got the Atari 2600, I just wanted to stay home and enjoy the gifts that the fat man had somehow gotten down the chimney that was pretty small and usually had a fire going on Christmas Eve night.
For several years a table full of good food would be enough to get me to leave my GI Joes, Hot Wheels track or train set. But over the years, I like being at home on Christmas Day. Let the girls stay in their pajamas and eat leftovers. Because of the pandemic, we were home yesterday and we all enjoyed it.
The mini bike was everything a little Honda CT50 was not. It was slow, cheap, rough and sat low to the ground. The wide little tires gave it a turning radius of a pickup truck. It was heavy and it was slow. That meant when you tried to imitate Evil Knievel, you would always fail. Too heavy to pop a wheelie and too slow to get enough speed to clear the ramp. That doesn't mean it wouldn't kill you.
You could still center a pine tree, fall over in the middle of the street, hit the bumper of a pickup and get close lined by a sweetgum branch. I still have the mark on my right arm where I fell over and burned my arm on the exhaust pipe. At some point, the helmet was just left in my Dad’s shop. He resigned to the fact that helmet or not I was going to die on the thing and it would be his fault. I had been and would always be a momma’s boy, this was his first attempt to break me away from her protection.
My buddies and I would ride that little bike all over the woods surrounding the neighborhood and down into Eastwood that connected to Oakdale Street. Down in Eastwood lived some twin boys, they were being raised by a single mom. They had a go cart powered probably by the same Tecumseh engine and we would race around. The twins knew all kinds of stuff. They had Playboy magazines, listened to Led Zeppelin and taught us how to sniff gas. Like kids in the favelas of Rio de Janeiro, we would huddle around breathing in leaded 86 octane out of my little blue mini bike that Santa Claus brought me…
That was about as far as my drug life took me. Even though the twins, a mix between Tony Montana and Jeff Spicoli, would have weed, alcohol and certainly worse later on. When we were all in Junior High, I was befriended by the McLaurin Marajuana Mafia. 3M were mostly made up of Richland kids. I was stuck in PE with them which was pretty cool because the coaches left us alone for the most part. We played some great kickball and they told me all about the girls on the opposite side of the gym. When they found out I knew the twins, these professional dopeheads told me to stay clear of them. They were just out of control…
The little mini bike would continue to roll up and down the street, getting harder and harder to crank. You could pull the crank and hour somedays and it would do nothing. The next moment, it would fire right up and just haul ass away from you because you were twisting the throttle too far when you cranked it. At some point the frame broke, from too many attempted jumps over dirt piles or crashes.
The chain literally ate through the frame. Dad would haul it to work to get Culley to try to repair it. And off we would go again. Riding by the twins, but not stopping. We wanted to ride till the fuel was gone, not snort the fumes. The bike would just lay inside the shop or shed. Mostly in the way. Going months till it would crank and make another run by the twins. One time, I drove by them and shot them the bird and hauled ass. Like the US Marshals would probably do to them later on, they tracked me down, hiding in one of my buddies Mom’s closet and drug me outside and hit me. The Tony Montana coming out in both of them.
At some point the mini bike was just sitting out in the elements. Dead. Berry was at the house. helping Daddy cut wood or spread St. Augustine grass. Daddy would always be on the lookout for St. Augustine that was fixing to be dug up for a new building site. Much of the grass around the house on Oakdale Street had come from a new McDonald's location on the corner of Hanging Moss and Northside Drive in Jackson. Berry and Dad finished up that afternoon, had a few Coors and Fritos and then Berry got some cash and a free mini bike. He would take it home and get it running again. His brothers, kids, cousin and friends would drive it around Westland Plaza and surrounding neighborhoods.
A week ago, a customer was telling me about his nephews getting four wheelers for Christmas. I thought about my Daddy rolling the blue minibike in the house, my mom threatening him if it leaked oil onto the new carpet or if I killed myself on it. He told her I would be fine and anyway they had Ginny at that point. They had a spare. My mom worried about me pulling out in front of a school bus and dying the same way our French poodle had. My dad was not worried at all because he bought me that helmet. I hope those two with their new four wheelers make some good memories with their mom and dad. But I hope they stay away from the twins. Sniffing gas is not the best way to get high....
