Up Front

UP FRONT

LOST AND FOUND

Allan Girdler

We were in bed, shortly after 11 p.m. on a weekday night. Kate was home, Joe was home, but 18-year-old John was still out. Going to his pal’s house to work on the pal’s new bike, he said, so I wasn’t worried. He’s a reliable kid...

The telephone rang. Okay, I was worried. The night before this he’d been really late getting home. Seems he and another friend were on their way to a girl’s house and a car ran a red light. The other kid was riding in front and he went down; turned and braked to miss the car and the front end washed out. My son managed to avoid the crash (except that his gearshift was somehow bent when he looked later) and the other rider wasn’t much hurt. Scraped arm, bruises. The bike was banged up, with forks going this way, headlight that way. He was dazed and son John wouldn’t let him ride until he’d started breathing normally and talking in full sentences. Yes, both were wearing helmets. But even so, by the time they got the bike straight enough to ride and got to the other guy’s house, slowly, it was early morning. Oh, the car? Kept right on going, y’know, kids on motorcycles, they deserve what they get.

So the telephone rang and I was worried. When the other voice was my son, I was so relieved I almost got mad. Then he told me why he was calling instead of riding into the driveway.

“My bike’s been stolen.”

Oh, dear. This is the sort of thing one reads about in magazines, the sort of problem we’ve even mentioned in this magazine. It isn’t the sort of thing one needs to go through firsthand. Especially not now. John had been riding it for seven or eight months. We bought it—right, ol’ dad helped out, spoiling his children except that John had in mind a 500 and I said, no, it’s my money and you’ll get to pick your own motorcycle when you can lay down the cash for it—so he could get back and forth from school. Now he’s out of school and looking for a job, so using his 250 at 60 mpg is all he can afford.

Once again I was reminded how unlike real life are the things one reads in books, and how merely acting like a normal person is enough to land you in serious trouble. If he’d gone to a concert or the beach or even ridden to any place he’s not familiar with, he would have taken every precaution.

I am this way myself. When I leave a bike at the airport I lash it to a fence or a drainpipe with enough locks and chains to baffle Houdini. When I’m getting into a big risk situation, I take every measure available to reduce the risk. But in normal circumstances I tend to trust my fellow man or (a more accurate way to say it) I don’t take any more trouble than I can avoid taking and I bet I’m not the only one.

Nor was poor John. He had gone to Craig’s house. Craig had just traded his tired 500 for a nice new 185 and being a kid the very first thing he’d done after that was buy a tuned exhaust pipe. They’d come by our house, eaten everything in the icebox, asked my advice on tuning the carb and gone to tackle the project.

We live in a small town and Craig lives a couple of blocks away. A residential street. Nobody there but the people who live there. The kids had been working in the garage, on a summer night so they closed the garage door to keep the bugs out about 9 and when they opened the door, just before 11, there was an empty place in the driveway where John’s bike had been.

The ignition key was in John’s pocket. Naturally he’d taken the key from the switch when he parked. But because it was right there near home, and he’d be only a few feet away, and locking the forks on an XL250 is a separate action, he hadn’t. So if anybody had enough nerve to roll the bike down the drive and away, they could do it. Somebody had done it.

Craig took his 185 and John took Craig’s pedal bike and they made a quick lap of the neighborhood, just in case one of the other kids had a funny sense of humor. No sign of the 250. One kid did say he’d H seen a red truck parked nearby and the truck had driven away when looked at, sounds suspicious after the fact, but other than that, nothing.

I called the sheriff. First thing the dispatcher said was, are your payments up to date? Damn right, I said, feeling accused when I deserved sympathy, but it turns out once each day in our county someone reports his car stolen when in fact it’s merely the friendly finance company. I’d dug out the papers and all but they simply said hold still and an officer will come get the report. Seems they need my signature in case there’s a pursuit.

Craig packed John home and waited with us. We weren’t sure the deputy would be able to tell a red Honda XL 185 from a red Honda XL250 and we didn’t want Craig to get pulled over on his way home.

The deputy was a nice guy, took down all the facts and said either it’s a joy ride and the bike will be run until it’s caught or breaks, or it’s a professional job. He took careful notes until we felt foolish; motorcycles come with engine and frame numbers, he didn’t need to know our 250 has^ S&W shocks with blue springs, an enduro taillight, Oakley grips, Cycle World and Malcolm Smith decals on the tank.

Next morning dawned equally gloomy.

I called the insurance agency and was told what I was afraid I already knew. I’d insured the bike for liability only, same as I have on my own two machines. Insurance** is just money down the drain, until you need it. For years I’ve resented paying all that money for nothing. Now I wished I hadn’t saved the ten or whatever bucks theft coverage would have cost me.

Then the good news. My wife called. The sheriffs office had just called her. They’d found John’s Honda and the deputy had come to the house and taken him to pick it up. ^

We’d been lucky. The 250 had been concealed in some bushes a block or so away from Craig’s driveway. John and Craig hadn’t seen it when they went right past.-* Neither had the deputy when he checked the neighborhood. 1

But the man whose shrubbery it is had ^ heard some noises during the night. His dogs began barking at 1 a.m. and he went to see what was up. He didn’t see or hear anything. When he went out to the garage in the morning, though, there was this i strange motorcycle crammed into the*] bushes. So he called the sheriff and reported it. *

What happened, we theorize, is that whoever stole the bike had just barely rolled it down the driveway when the kids came outside. They got it hidden but didn’t dare load it into the truck. Theyi went away until things cooled off, came back and got scared off for good by the dogs. Not worth the risk, for which we’re grateful.

My wife told me this and I asked, is the bike all right? She didn’t know, but just as i she said that she heard John and his XL, together again, ride into the driveway, i Must be okay, she said.

Then I realized what’s really the point i of all this. Like helmets and riding right, ' we always assume that we’re always prudent and need only take the right steps. But all the locks and precautions and,, alarms and helmets don’t work unless we use them. What would you do if you knew somebody out there wanted to steal your bike? Trust me. Somebody does.

When I got home from work that night, John’s XL was parked in its usual corner of the front walk. Not a mark on it. Just^ for fun, I checked. The forks were locked.

I don’t think either of us will make that mistake again.