Thanks for the Memories

Over at the Brier Patch, Sam posted a tale of his youth which triggered a veritable tidal wave of memories. He could have ridden with our pack and fit in seamlessly. Sam, thanks for your tale of young wildness. Your exploits made me smile, and brought forth this memory.

I grew up in Southern CA in the 60s & 70s. Motocross and desert motorcycle racing was huge then, but remember it was also the pre-supercross and pre-BMX bicycle days.

We used to build our own proto-BMX bikes out of the best of what could be stripped from any handy bicyle. Schwinn had the strongest frames, forks, goosenecks, and pedal cranks. Their S-2 rim, when laced to the front hub from a 26" giant paperboy-bike made an almost indestructible front wheel assembly.

Our bikes were painted Flat Black. The chrome was shiny, but that flat black sure looked bad! Came in handy at night, too. Given our bad habits at the time, that was a very necessary advantage.

San Diego is a very, very hilly place. We built ramps at the bottom of the steepest hills. Big ramps for those times. Twelve feet long, four feet high and two feet wide. More than one construction site had to replace some missing lumber, I imagine.

Hit that ramp at the bottom of a 1/2 mile downhill run, and it seemed like ya flew forever. I still have scars from a few bad landings to remind me of....well, bad landings.

Just as a side note; if you remember the Bruce Brown movie “On Any Sunday”, you’ll have a visual of the era. And that kid on a bicycle riding a wheelie in the opening scenes? A mere piker. If he’d have sat on that seat and controlled his ride, he could have tapped his coaster brake, and kept his crank-speed low enough to still make torque. Instead he pedaled faster and faster till the he redlined. I’ve ridden many a mile-plus wheelie by keeping my ass on the seat and controlling that speed.

But the most memorable thrill of all from that time was given courtesy of Grant's Department Store and their Heroic Security Guard.

W.T. Grant was still in business then. Our neighborhood pack of pedal powered ruffians were amusing ourselves greatly by towing a Grant's shopping cart from the bike, (one handed, off to the side), as fast as we could get 'em to roll.

With a friend doing the same from an oncoming bike. Man, those carts hit head-on with a very satisfying SMASH, flying all up into the air and landing in some very interesting, abstract art-ish piles.

While getting another cart up to V-1, my takeoff roll was interrupted by the screams of the other guys to "get the hell outta here!!!" I turned and found I had a Security Guard catching up with me on a dead-run. Heroically, even. That is, till I let the cart go.

He and that cart made their own artistic statement.

Problem was, he wasn't the typical overstuffed, triple-retiree which was typical of his trade in those days. Oh no, this was the Stud-Duck of his profession. In no time, he was up and in his Chevy Vega and catching up with the pack of eight considerably faster than we could pedal.

But we could go places he couldn't. In that the eight of us scattered to every point of the compass, he locked his radar on me like a horny Sparrow missile after a MiG in heat. I was riding between pumps at gas stations, gaps in hedges and every other evasive trick in the book. He’d drive around the long way, but in the contest of car vs. bicycle, in both acceleration and speed, the car always wins.

If the car can go where the bicycle goes, that is.

We had already perfected the art of the “curb-hop” on the bikes. This is where you can ride at a tall curb at full speed, and with a rapid, well-timed downward HARD compression on pedals and bars, SPRING the bike off of it’s two wheels, straight up into the air. The best of us could clear four of our stupid volunteers friends who’d lie on the ground, side by side like Evil Knevel’s Greyhounds. And never touch ‘em, either.

Using this technique at a Bicycle Mach 2, (maybe 25-mph?), I made for the best escape route I could find. A tall storm drain curb on the corner, behind which were the gates to a seemingly endless development of apartments, apartments, apartments. And more apartments.

With the Vega’s bumper sniffing my rear wheel, I went for that curb. And cleared it. I think the Security Guard thought he’d have me pinned against that curb with no way out, as he Heroically stayed right on me to the very end. Bad choice on his part. Can you just imagine what that car sounded like as it slammed it’s subframe and oil pan up and over that 12” high curb? No imagination needed here. It was most impressive, I might add.

Must have really pissed him off, too. After ducking through the grounds of several of those apartments, hiding the bike and myself behind landscape features and the like, he finally clanked, rumbled and peeled-off in a cloud smoke from leaking, burnt oil and left.

Seemed like hours, but the whole chase probably only lasted 15 minutes or so.

Obviously, I’ll probably never know what happened to that poor Heroic Security Guard. I never did know just who he was, so I can’t look him up these days to buy him a well-earned drink. Looking back, I feel bad now that he surely wreaked extreme havoc on his car. But in all honesty, I mostly look back and laugh.

Twelve and Thirteen. We did some ballsy, brave and very, very stupid things. I think I’m the better for having done ‘em, but how I survived past that age mystifies me still.

Thanks again, Sam. For the Memories.

Comments

[Sam]

Thank you Sir! Ain't it great - growing up. I owe you a cold beverage and a smoke!!!!!

[Pedro the Ignorant]

"On Any Sunday" is one of the great motorcycle movies.
It captures perfectly the feel of the times when the ride was more important than winning, and the open road or desert track was the key to freedom.

Here in Australia we have a LOT of desert, and the ride today is as good as it was 30+ years ago.
A good bit slower, and it takes a little longer to recover, but the thrill of the ride never goes away.

Thanks for the reminder, Jim, I am going to pull out the video again and re-live a little.

[Key]

My comment was eaten. Either that or I stuck it on the wrong post. ; )

I'll re-create:

I read Sam's story earlier and was FLOORED that such a sweetie was ever such a hellion.

As for you, Jim...I can't say anything. (I was chased on barefoot by police at age 15.)

[Haywood]

I grew up in SoCal, too. O.C. Same time frame. I've got the same story, but with a janitor from the elementary school where we were all getting high. And there was a screwdriver involved. And the Police. Hmmm, maybe not the same story.

Thanks for the flashback memories.