Apr. 27, 2002 - 20:05 MDT

THE WONDERING JEW

With Thunder

This, a tale oft told. About this time in the spring of the year, when the trees are boldly blooming, the clouds puffing up in the sky and the soft wind warms and the whole world seems new and exciting. My memories take me back to the time I was the proud owner of a used 30/50 Indian Motorcycle, a bit smaller than a Harley 45. I was about 27 years old with the soul of an adventurer the ignorance of the young and the possessor of a long desired mode of transportation.

Learning to ride it was relatively easy, about like a bicycle in the manner of making turns and balancing. The task was learning all the no-no's associated with using something a heck of a lot more powerful than a bicycle. I had a few spills, luckily at a low speed but ego busting nonetheless. I didn't know from Zen but learned a bit about motorcycle maintenance and the art of survival when my faithful steed gasped and quit running.

I learned the ins and outs of running without a headlight one night on a ride in from the country when my generator gave up and the battery would do the headlights or the engine but not both. One time the switch on my bike died out in the country and I was towed into town behind a devil driving a car who had no conception of towing anything, let alone in a rainstorm. Almost lost it on the slick cobblestones on one of the streets. That was educational with high excitement. The experience of installing a new switch and putting new wiring on the bike was something I could laugh at a year or so later but at the time had my teeth grinding. I got the job done, put the key in the switch and turned the switch on, smelling something like burning insulation/rubber immediately. After taking the tank off and checking the rewire job again several times. I was leaning against the side of the station having a Pepsi when a vagrant zephyr brought that smell to my nose again. Whups, the switch was off. Looked about a bit and noticed a wisp of smoke coming from the trash barrel, someone had been burning trash in the barrel. So, cursing the world and myself, I put the key in the switch, turned it on, started the engine and took a psychotherapic ride to cool my fevered brow.

But I had so many, many ecstatic rides and adventures on that little throbbing beast. A slight twist on the throttle would produce an immediate surge of powerful speed. I was a dog with his nose in the wind, chewing bugs as they blew in my mouth and loving every second of it.

My motorcycle was a living being to me, responsive to my wishes and striving to please me - - which it did.

Later on I joined a motorcycle club, one of the civilized ones (there always have been that kind) and enjoyed many a ride out in the country with the group, sometimes going on a hot night to Galesburg hunting cool hollows as we went, circling around and running through a time or two then going on our way. Having a malt and a burger there and heading home again hunting coolth.

What a thrill that was to me, the club seemed to be one unit with all the power in the world at our command. When I was with them I rode With Thunder . . . . . . .

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