Wheels: Part 1 of 3

I’ve never been much of a thrill seeker. At least in the vertical sense. Never parasailed. Never hang-glided. Never took trapeze lessons. Skateboarded only on level ground. I’ve gone skiing once in my life, with an old girlfriend when I was about seventeen or eighteen, and was passed on the bunny slope by a kid who couldn’t have been older than eight, a kid who while sailing off a jump swung both skis to the side in a crouch and announced to me while airborne “daffy,” before landing in stride and gliding down the hill in front of me. I don’t know exactly what the little shit meant by that, but I felt the effects of it right where it hurts most.

My oldest daughter has tried unsuccessfully to get me on a roller-coaster, but I don’t even enjoy them from the ground. When my first wife won a trip to Disney World we were lodged in the Dolphin Hotel, which offered a clear view of Disney’s newest construction, The Tower of Terror. If I understood correctly, it was intended to simulate the feeling of freefalling down an elevator shaft. Safe, I knew I was, since in the four days we would be there, the suicide ride would not be finished and ready to take on passengers. Still, the immense height of the scaffolding from my hotel window sent chills.

But that’s more a matter of verticality. If that’s a word. Speed, moving strictly along the x-axis, is a different matter. I like to ride my bike. Fast even. But for Joe, who grew up in a household bred for speed – Joe Sr. used to race cars - biking meant something entirely different. He was mastering moto-cross while I was learning how to shift on a ten-speed. He had a semi-circle of moto-cross trophies aligned above his stereo cabinet in his room in Medfield.

Joe's Moto-cross bike, #594. Southborough, MA 1985.

For one of his races out in Southborough, Pete, Sarah and I rode out with him. This was probably 1985 or so. It was hot as sin and somewhere out there on the dusty trail number 594 was kicking up a storm before he took a nasty spill. He was pissed afterwards, complaining about another rider who was apparently trailing him too tightly. I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was the time that this same unsportsmanlike rider ran his front wheel into Joey’s back wheel, tripping him up while passing him and then from behind another rider trampled Joey, tire treads permanently imprinted on his lower back to prove it. For years afterward he would lift his shirt and show the pattern of grooves to people and tell the story of the asshole who did it to him. I think he was more proud of that brand than any of the many tattoos that festooned his arms.

Joe's Suzuki. Medfield, MA 1988.

When Joey retired from moto-cross he got himself a road bike. A Suzuki 1100 GSX. I took a hundred or so rides on the back of that machine and not once, surprisingly, did I ever fear for my life. Trust comes with knowledge I guess. And despite my aversion to high-risk activity, I always trusted Joe behind the wheel of anything. His Chevy S-10 pick-up, his Ford cargo vans, his snowmobile, his Suzuki 1100. I was passenger to all those and more. There were times on the back of that bike that I deliberately didn’t look over his shoulder at the speedometer. I knew the rate at which we were passing cars on the interstate, but I didn't care. This was better than anything Disney would have to offer, and I always knew we’d come out alive.