Now They Call Me Gunner

  * * *

  Early Saturday morning, I was awakened by a roar outside my window. Who would be mowing their lawn at the ungodly hour of seven-thirty? I didn’t have to be at work until ten. I could sleep for another two hours.

  There was a loud knock on my door.

  “Wha’?”

  “Your friend is here to see you again,” Dad said.

  Friend? None of my friends would show up at this time of the morning. None but Randal.

  “Be there.” I began fighting the bedclothes off.

  A few minutes later, wearing jeans and a tee shirt, I was looking at Randal standing in the living room.

  “Come on. We got to get you set up.”

  “Set up?”

  “Yeah. For our road trip.”

  “It’s Saturday.”

  “I know.”

  “We work on Saturday.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m here. We got to get you set up before we go to work.”

  He explained no more, just walked out the front door.

  I slipped my feet into my sneakers and followed him.

  There was a big black motorcycle sitting in the middle of the driveway.

  “You got a new bike?” I asked.

  “No. I borrowed one for you. We can’t talk to a bunch of bikers if we’re driving a Datsun.”

  I could feel my jaw drop. “I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle.”

  “That’s why I’m here. You learn today.”

  “Huh?” was the most intelligent comment that my mind could devise. After feeling fear settle into my gut for a minute I said, “I don’t think I can.”

  “You can ride a bicycle, can’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Same thing. Just a matter of balance.”

  I stared at the bike for a minute. It didn’t look like a bicycle. It looked enormous. “It’s big.”

  “Sixty-five pan-head Harley. You can’t ride a scooter when we go looking for bikers on Wednesday. No credibility.”

  I shook my head, struck mute.

  “Hop on.”

  “Huh?”

  “You can’t learn to ride standing there. You got to be on the bike. Come on. Hop on.”

  Hop wasn’t exactly the right verb to describe grabbing the handlebars and bending forward far enough to hoist my leg over the saddle.

  I felt like I was straddling a barrel. This was nothing like a bicycle.

  “Stand it upright so that it’s balanced.”

  It was heavy. It took considerable effort to push it upright.

  “You don’t want to lean it too far over. If it falls on its side, it’s going to be hard to pick up again.”

  Hard? More like impossible. It felt like it weighed a ton.

  “Now kick the kickstand up. That’s right. Here’s the key.” He handed me a key on a lucky rabbit’s foot keychain. I could use all the luck that I could get. More luck than the rabbit who lost his foot for a keychain.

  “Turn the power on, then push the starter button. Electric start on this baby. It’s almost no effort to ride at all.”

  His encouragement sounded insincere in my ear.

  I gritted my teeth and pressed the button. The bike jerked.

  “Wait. Pull the clutch, first. Left hand. That’s right. All the way in. Now push the button.”

  The starter motor whined for a few seconds, then the engine caught and began to chug with that famous Harley growl.

  Just having the big bike under me had been frightening enough. Feeling it vibrate with power was terrifying. I wished that I were still in bed fast asleep, blissfully unconscious.

  “Great. Okay. Brakes. Right hand is the front wheel. Right pedal is the rear. Use a little of both. Be careful you don’t lock the front wheel unless you want to flip the bike. That would not be a good idea. Twist the right hand to gun the engine.”

  I twisted the handgrip and the engine roared.

  “Not hard. Keeping a delicate touch on throttle and brakes is always better on a bike.”

  I experimented a little with the throttle, learning to change the bass purr to a low growl.

  “Okay. Make sure you keep the clutch pulled and try the gears. That’s the pedal on your left. Remember that. Left side is go; right side is stop. Except for the throttle. Okay. Click the left pedal down. Now it’s in first. Get your foot underneath it and click it up with your foot. Now it’s back in neutral. See the green light. Neutral. Real important to know when it’s in neutral. If it’s not in neutral, the bike’s going to move or stall. All the way down is first then it goes up to neutral then up to second, then third, then fourth. Got it?”

  I nodded uncertainly.

  “Great. Then all the rest is just practice. Go ahead. Put it in first, give it a little gas, and then ease the clutch out. Just drive it a few feet and stop. Don’t forget to clutch when you brake again.”

  The bike jerked and then stalled. All was silent.

  Randal looked at me. “How would you do it different next time?”

  “More gas?”

  “And slower on the clutch. Crank it on again.”

  I pressed the button. The bike lurched.

  “Clutch in, then crank it on.”

  The engine roared back to life.

  I gave it some throttle and eased the clutch out, a fraction of an inch at a time. The bike vibrated and then began to roll forward. I grabbed the clutch and it kept rolling. I grabbed the front brake lever and it jerked to a stop.

  I’d done it! I’d driven a motorcycle almost six feet. My terror didn’t diminish but was shadowed by a touch of elation.

  “Great,” Randal said. “Do it some more. Get a feel for first.”

  I drove the bike out to the street, then down the block in a series of fits and starts. It wobbled precariously, but I kept it upright.

  I waited until Randal caught up with me. “Now try second gear. Remember, you have to click it up twice to get past neutral.”

  Randal hung around until I’d ridden the full length of the block in second.

  “Okay. You got two more gears above that when you’re ready to go faster. I’ll see you at Elsa’s in an hour.”

  And that was the end of my motorcycle lessons.

  “What about a license?” I asked.

  “Talk to the DMV,” he said. “Oh, and get yourself equipped.”

  “With a helmet?”

  “With shades. You don’t want bugs in your eyes.”

  He walked away. He didn’t even watch as I maneuvered the machine around and rode it back to my house.

  He had a lot more confidence in me than I did. But he wasn’t the one who was going to die when I ran into a tree.

  I showered and then rode my new bike over to Elsa’s. It was a little less than a mile and it seemed to take me almost as long to get there as if I’d walked, but I made it.

  I stalled only a half dozen times and I even managed to get up to third gear somewhere on Main Street.

  I was ready to be an outlaw biker now.