After sorting through tons of “Your First Ride Contest” stories, we picked finalists and set about the difficult task of selecting a winner. As you may recall our winner was Arnold Fox with the story of his first motorcycle. After hearing a few requests from you on Facebook we thought you would enjoy reading the stories from some of our finalists. Here is a story we liked called “Bessie” by Matt Bourne.
Bessie – Matt Bourne
A bike is really more than just a bike. That was something I learned many years ago when I was a little boy. My family went to Maine for the summer to visit my grandparents on the coast. They had lived there for some time, building houses in the woods near the rocky Maine coastline. There were many buildings there to support every branch of our extended family, and in the summer, it was its own little village in the forest. My favorite building was always the barn. It was an immense construction, raised by a team of Amish gentlemen in a matter of days. Huge beams spanned the interior, keeping it strong and square. It was a marvel of engineering to me.
Really, what I loved most about it was what it contained. Namely, my father’s childhood motorcycle, a 1964 Honda Cub 50. When he lived in New Jersey as a boy, he used to mow lawns. When an elderly lady couldn’t pay him, she gave him the Honda, which had been left behind by her daughter who was now in college in Washington D.C. He took it gleefully and has had it ever since. I can still remember when he first showed it to me. It was the best thing in the whole world, a bicycle that you didn’t have to pedal. He endearingly named her “Bessie.” He took me for a ride on it on the dirt road down to the docks. It was wonderful, flying down the road, clutching his shirt, the sun peeking through the overhanging trees. When we got to the dock, I asked him if I could drive it. He laughed his fatherly, caring laugh and told me that when I could touch the ground while sitting on the seat, I could drive it. I waited for that day with anticipation the likes of which I had never experienced before. I would sit on the Honda while it was parked and stretch my legs down, hoping I’d grow a little faster. I waited; riding on it with my dad was enough for me then. It didn’t matter where we were going or what we were doing, when we were on that little bike, we could fly. That was what hooked me. That weightlessness is the feeling that I remember so vividly.
It would be 4 years before I could sit correctly on the bike. I was more mature, and had been briefed on the dangers of the bike in several iterations by my mother and father. It was a great feeling, walking over to that barn after all those years of waiting. I knew how to start it by heart by now. Turn on the gas, turn the key, kick the starter. The little Honda would always start first kick. I would finally get my first ride on a real motorcycle. It was a tiny, underpowered Honda, but it was a great feeling. The centrifugal clutch meant that I didn’t have to actually know how to operate a clutch, and I’d been watching my dad shift the bike for years. “One back, two forward.” I repeated to myself. My dad patted me on the back, “Ready?” He was as nervous as I was excited. I shook my head violently. He let go of the bike and I slowly twisted the throttle. The bike pulled underneath me, and it took a few yards before I got used to feeling. It was faster than I remembered, and I was scared of it at first. Terrified really, because I knew the soft dirt was not a good place to ride. Even for a regular bicycle, it was treacherous. Despite my fear, I slowly became accustomed to riding the Honda. Over the years, it became my favorite thing to do. I would be the first to start it in the early summer, and would winterize it every fall. I rode it everywhere I could, and kept it in good shape. I even taught my cousins and little brother how to ride it. I was in love with that bike.
Then I crashed. All these years later and I can still remember how it hurt. The hot exhaust scalded the skin on my leg and left a nasty burn. I had just pulled over the bike when the sand gave out from under me and I toppled. The bike landed on top of me, and I couldn’t get it off of me. Luckily, my grandparents were there and helped me out of the ditch. I played it off like nothing was wrong, but nothing had ever hurt quite that much. I was taken to the hospital the next day, as it was a day trip, and the doctor said it was a bad burn, but I’d be fine. He had to cut part of the skin away, and I can remember crying while he did it.
I didn’t touch the bike again for another year. My dad laughed at me for being afraid of the bike. He told me that it was just something that happens. I told him that he didn’t understand. He pulled up the leg of his pants and showed me a little bald spot on his calf. “Yes,” he said, “Yes I do. This is my Bessie Bite, just like yours.” He was right, of course. I couldn’t let something so small deter me from the bike. I returned to it, sitting in the corner of the barn, scuffed and dented. It was waiting there for me.
It would be 2 months before the little bike was restored to the way it was before the accident, and I would ride it again. I had taken a spill on it now. I wasn’t afraid of it, but I had found much more respect for the little moped. Even though it was only 50ccs, and it weighed less than 250lbs, any bike could still do damage to the rider if he isn’t paying attention or if he doesn’t respect his ride.
That bike taught me more in a few years about being a motorcyclist than any half-ton cruiser or supercharged crotch rocket ever could. It was because of that bike that I have the motorcycle “bug,” and the Honda will always have a special place in my heart as the bike that bit me. Literally.
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