The Minibike Incident

We were flying, the three horse Briggs and Stratton maxed out. Little did we know what was in store for us.

It was the last day of school 1966. We had a plan. we were going to celebrate summer vacation, the mini bike was waiting.

It was a different world back then, literally. Today’s society has little to no resemblance to the worry free times of my childhood. We did have chores of course, and responsibilities. But as with all children past and present the summers were forever. Our brief existence giving us a perspective that as adults we are no longer able to perceive.

Most summer days we would spend barefoot, our goatlike feet tougher than the gravel driveway that we would routinely run across, without so much as a second thought. Generally our days would be spent doing things like building forts and exploring the surrounding countryside. Sometimes our wanderings would find us miles from home. Visiting places that we named, like Indian hill and devils bathtub. In the evening, usually after dinner, there would be daily softball games in the neighborhood, boys and girls mixed in like Planters nuts. Night would bring the games of flashlight tag and chasing after fireflies . Sometimes we would do an overnight in our fort, sleeping little and talking late around the campfire.

Winter would bring to the neighborhood all the usual winter fun. Going sledding, skating on the frozen pond out back, snow forts and hot chocolate. And of course the biggest snowman we could manage.

But let’s get back to the mini bike, it was a death trap. With a top speed of a mere twenty miles an hour you would think it slow. But to an eight year old it was perfect. It was mine, but we all took turns riding it. Now being dirt poor we took to making do when things broke. For instance the throttle cable, it had broken so we made do with some string, tied to the carb. We would simply pull on the string to accelerate. Next came the shutoff, the little metal piece used to ground the spark plug had broken off. So we took to using a screwdriver to ground the sparkplug. Lastly the brake, it was a low tech device that rubbed against the rear tire when applied. Now the issue with the brake was this, the spring that had kept the pedal up when not in use had also broken. This was the trifecta of issues creating the impending trip to the hospital.

So, it was the last day of school 1966, we were ready. When the bifold door on the bus opened we hit the ground running. Gassed up and ready to go, we wheeled it from the barn. We had never bothered with helmets, few seldom did back then.

My brother’s job was to work the throttle, sitting in the front I would give him verbal commands for acceleration or slowing down. My job was steering and braking. Let’s not forget the screwdriver shutoff tool in my right hand.

I pulled the recoil and we where off.

Like a certain boy and his stuffed tiger we took off down the lane towards the fields outback. My brother had the carb wide open as we came to a curve in the single track. The brake pedal bouncing up and down with the bumps.

It was a perfect storm of a thousand ways to die, I was yelling for him to let off on the throttle, it didn’t matter, it was stuck wide open. Hitting the curve too fast we had to lean over more to negotiate the bend. Now it was the brake pedals turn, bouncing up and down it timed itself perfectly. Coming down at precisely the right moment to catch the one small stump that we had been going past for several years.

What usually happens when a moving object encounters an immovable object happened. It was instantaneous, the pedal encountering the stump caused the mini bike to flip over, the action of it was so fast, neither my brother nor I could later remember the sequence of events. I do however remember that my arm was somehow against the rear wheel which was still spinning as the engine had not stalled. As I untangled myself from the mini bike I could hear my brother moaning. When I looked up the scene before me was one of blood. It was never proven but it must be said that the screwdriver, which I was holding in my right hand, had caused the damage.

My brother’s head was bleeding profusely, he looked like that scene from “Carrie”. It was at this point that I yelled for him to run, I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him bleeding up to the house.

Our mother, hearing the yells, looked out the window to see my brother bathed in blood running towards the rear door. Moments later, with a towel on his head they where off to the hospital.

Several hours later they returned, my brother’s head shaved and what looked like a six inch caterpillar of cotton stitched on the side of his head. Otherwise he was fine and in good spirits.

The mini bike, which I had retrieved, showed the force of the impact with the tree stump. The half inch steel rod of the brake pedal had snapped off. Also the front fork was twisted to a degree that ended the bike’s days. Relegated to the barn to collect dust it was later stripped of it’s engine and wheels.

As we grew, we would move on to bigger and faster vehicles, including a lot car that could definitely be the source of other stories of our adolescence. My brother still sports his scar, never misssing the chance to show it off and throw blame my way for the screwdriver.