I was 15 at the time, my friend was 16. Ron, stood a puny 4foot 11inches tall, was a 'Harley-Davidson biker' in training. What we used to call a 'wannbe'. Wallet on a chain, black engineer's boots, cut-off sleeve jean vest, and scraggly facial hair completed the 1970's biker look. Being munchkin-like short and the butt of many jokes, he always was trying to prove himself. I found out first hand what a severe case of little man's syndrome looks like through my association with Ron. This was made worse by having no bike, until his 16th birthday....
He stops by my house one Saturday morning, with a new-used custom motorcycle that his mom had bought for him as a present. Not just any motorcycle, but a Honda 450 chopper motorcycle
(think Harley chopper of the day, but in miniature). Hardtail frame, no front brake, just a stock drum rear brake, (popular back then). The loud open straight-pipes let everyone for for blocks know you were coming. It was the quintessential 70's outlaw chopper, except someone had 'washed it on hot' and shrunk it
Looking back, it fit my friend pretty well, miniature Ron on a mini-chopper. He was so beaming with pride, I thought he was going to wet himself! i was happy for him, his parents threw him a bone, which didn't happen very often.
Against my better judgement, he convinces me to hop on the back for a quick trip around the block. Says he'll let me ride it.
One block turns into 5 miles miles on a beat up old country road, then he decides to 'open her up, see what she'll do!'
I protest. Not because I'm afraid of speed, but because this little guy has almost
no experience on the street and a dangerous personality disorder. The equipment is not performance oriented, being a raked and extended chopper with no front brake or rear shocks, and I'm not wearing a brain bucket to protect my noggin. But the biker in training knows better and rolls on the throttle... 60, 70mph with me telling him to slow down all the while.
He isn't slowing, isn't taking me serious, so I start punching him in the ribs, thinking that will slow him down. But he keeps rolling on the throttle like a man possessed! I decide if I knock the wind out of him, we'd crash for sure, so I instead shut up and hang on, so he can concentrate. I figure I can knock his front teeth out,
after we've stopped.
The little two cylinder 450cc bike was impressive, but runs out of power and gear at about 110mph. My kidneys feeling every bump doled out by this patchwork quilt of a road we were flying down. He holds wide open throttle as we approach a curve. I'm wondering if this clown is on a suicide mission and is going to take me with him. Maybe I shouldn't have teased him so often? Then he backs off the throttle and we round the curve... phew!
I smell smoke. I look down, and the engine has puked most of it's oil out of the breather, all over my jeans, the bike, and the rear wheel.
Now the engine starts knocking... "Hey dumbass, sounds like you have a rod knock" were the only words I had for him.
I wound up walking home. For all I know, Ron and his stubby little legs are still pushing that POS
