Cycle of Events
CYCLE OF EVENTS
OR, AN APPLICATION OF PSYCHOLOGY... TO THE OLD MAN
H.E. DIMOND
DINNER WAS undergoing the usual dynamics at our house one evening last May, when my 23-yearold son dropped a bombshell.
“Dave and I,” he began, “are buying a Honda 300.”
I paused, a forkful of potatoes balanced halfway between plate and mouth.
“You’re what?” I choked.
He repeated his statement as though he were asking someone to pass the meat.
“You’re not bringing a motorcycle into this house,” I shot back. “Are you looking for trouble?” My usual indigestion began its upward surge through my chest, though somewhat earlier this evening. “Haven’t you been reading the papers? They’re having a rash of accidents on motorcycles. Besides, you don’t know how to ride.”
“Now, Dad,” Richard began again, after recovering from my onslaught, “you always enjoyed telling us the stories of your cycling days during World War II, when you were in the Air Force, and how much fun you had on that Harley you stole from the motor pool. Besides, the newspapers always play up that kind of thing. You know how mad you get when they headline airplane accidents, and play down the automobile rate.”
He was right, of course. I did have a great deal of fun on the GI HarleyDavidson I managed to liberate with the help of a friend in Brisbane, Australia, some 25 years ago. My year of riding in the service shot like a kaleidoscope of events through my mind as I groped for a satisfactory, fatherly comeback.
I’d learned to ride the army bike by climbing on and trying the controls with great care to see what would happen. Not the best method, I’ll admit, but as a test pilot for the Air Materiel Command in those days, checking myself out in a Strange craft was not new. There was no way of having another pilot ride along in a P-51 or a P-38. The test pilot just read the operating manual, asked a few questions and went. So I applied the same technique to the cycle.
My flashbacks were wiped out by my son’s continued explanation.
“There are plenty of places around here to learn to ride, and Dave already has a BMW. He could supervise me,” he offered, plaintively.
“Let’s not discuss it any more,” I said with finality, and the subject was dropped for the rest of the meal.
The thought haunted me all that night. What argument did I have? They haven’t stopped building cars, and the safety people are still trying to educate the drivers on the accident rate. But I was determined I’d say no more about it and hope the idea would pass with time.
My wishful thinking did not pay off, however, for on the evening of July 10, my wife and I were startled by the staccato bark of a motorcycle pulling into the garage. Richard’s face was beaming as he popped into the house with a simultaneous invitation to, “Come on and take a look at it.” A look of resignation passed between his mother and me as we started for the door.
Once outside, the thing I dreaded most in this whole affair happened. I melted like a marshmallow in a campfire. It was really a beautiful machine. Its gleaming chrome and black appearance, its sleek, clean configuration seemed to call to me to get a little closer-there, that’s it! I might add at this point that my son, a graduate psychologist, had begun the application of a bit of applied psychology on me, of which I was not aware, and from which I have not yet recovered.
“Start ’er up, Dad,” he urged, taking me by the arm.
I hesitated, but the thing drew me irresistably. Almost without realizing it, I was in the saddle. My 49 years melted away to 22 as I ran my fingers lovingly over the handlegrips, and reached for the clutch handle. I smiled sheepishly, head hung down low so that the embarrassment I felt at my childishness would not be noticed. Then they were all laughing, my wife at me; and even the kids saw through my poor facade. I couldn’t resist a weak grin.
“Here are the toe shift, the clutch and the throttle,” Richard said, focusing my attention on his directions.
I listened carefully, completely lost in his words of instruction.
“Why, it’s not too much different from the old Harley,” I ventured, “except there’s no hand shift and it’s lighter.”
Instinctively, I closed the clutch lever and touched the electric starter button. The engine roared into life. I felt the surge of power as I blipped the accelerator.
“Look out,” I called, as I walked the bike out onto the driveway.
My wife’s smile faded, and was replaced almost immediately by a mask of horror as she anticipated my action.
“Harry, you’re not going to try to ride that motorcycle, you’re just not!” Her tone was desperate. “You haven’t been on one in over 25 years.” She lapsed into a moan.
“Let me try it up the block once,” I pleaded. “Is that okay, Dick?”
“Sure, Dad, but take it slow.” I could hear the anxiety begin to creep into his voice as he felt the impact of my intention.
I couldn’t bring myself to look at my wife, who, I observed from the corner of my eye, was beginning to wring her hands. My mind was back to the machine under me, and I again rolled the throttle to recheck the acceleration. It felt good. Too good! 1 restrained my enthusiasm forcibly. It wouldn’t do to goof this ride, I thought. My prestige was at stake.
Carefully I shifted into first gear. Then, with a final glance for possible obstructions, I eased in the clutch, feeding fuel in the same proportion. The motorcycle jerked once and stalled.
“Bad show,” I grunted, somewhat embarrassed, and hit the starter again. This time the Honda moved out onto the street, seeming to offer no objection to the amateur on her back. At about 12 mph I shifted into second, and gingerly fed the throttle to pick up speed. As the corner stop sign approached I went over the procedure quickly in my mind, applying the foot brake to slow the machine and lightly squeezing the front hand brake to feel the reaction. It worked! I felt I was experiencing my first solo flight again.
With more confidence than I should have had, I continued around the block. When I returned to the house, my wife was gone.
Somewhat relieved himself, my son said, “Mom couldn’t take it any longer. She’s doing the dishes. She said she’d rather wait for you inside.”
Whistling gaily, I strode inside, confident congratulations were in order.
“You’re nuts!” Her greeting was anything but warm. “Don’t you really think this is a bit more than a 50-year-old man should be experimenting with?” My wife’s face was a study in disbelief and displeasure.
“Now, dear,” I started weakly, “I proved I can still ride, didn’t I?” My answer was a stony silence punctuated only by an overly emphatic clank of the dishes in the sink.
The motorcycle remained in the garage for several days because the press of my son’s studies limited his free time. His preoccupation was complete.
For a few days I, too, was content to come home from the office, glance casually at the idle motorcycle, and pass on to other necessary things. The evenings were wonderful that July, and we had just gone onto Daylight Saving Time in Ohio.
I stole the bike for the first time while my son studied in the basement den. It was spontaneous. I didn’t plan it, yet I guess I was afraid to ask, so I exercised my prerogative as head of the household. Nothing was said that evening after I returned from my first off-limits venture.
I looked furtively and guiltily around at each member of the family while they sat watching television. Nothing was said.
Slowly, the addiction began. I’d gotten away with it so far; an extension here and there wouldn’t hurt. Little by little I became more proficient and took longer trips—several miles, in fact, by the end of the second week. By now, Richard and I had had a silent understanding. My escapades were no longer considered secret.
It was, however, while I was on one of these longer excursions that I received some community recognition. I’d returned that evening from one of my “joyrides,” and was puttering around upstairs when the phone rang. My wife took the call in the kitchen.
“Winnie,” said the voice, “was that Harry I saw go by on a motorcycle?”
“Why,” my spouse replied, “what on earth gave you that idea?”
“I happened to look out the kitchen window just in time to see a motorcycle go by, and I’d swear I saw your husband on it.
“Well,” my wife answered, sounding as though she wished the phone hadn’t rung, “you’re right. He’s been sneaking rides on Dick’s new cycle, and I think he is either crazy, or has reached his second childhood.”
“Wait’ll I tell Max!” said the neighbor. “He’ll never believe it.”
Oh, we get calls periodically, to which my wife and I are resigned. Most of them are from people who appear to be testing their own sanity. Though normally sensitive to community opinion about our family, I find myself unmoved and almost completely oblivious of their unflattering thoughts and continue to enjoy my “second life,” mustering as much dignity as the circumstance allows.
Even now, late in August, it’s somewhat strange to hear my son ask, “Dad, do you mind if I borrow the motorcycle tonight?” He smiles then, and I have a feeling I’ve been had. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the thesis he has written for his Master of Arts degree is entitled: A Psychological Study of the Ageing Process, or How I Got Dad Back in the Saddle.
