Honda Mini-Trail 1971 model

Remember the  Honda mini trail? They were 50cc minibikes, with a 3 speed transmission, automatic clutch and a top speed of 30mph. Every kid wanted one, and the lucky kid who had one, was either everyone’s buddy because he let his friends ride it, or he was despised because he wouldn’t let anyone ride it, offering the standard “my dad said not to let anyone ride it” excuse. I am sure the story was the same in neighborhoods all across America.

Gerald gave his wife a beat up mini-trail for her birthday. I can’t remember ever seeing her ride it. It was primarily used by me and Gerald for lunchtime amusement  and getting around the pits at the racetrack. One day we were riding the minibike on the trails behind the shop and found an abandoned go-kart track. It was an incredible find, a perfectly good asphalt track abandoned and almost overgrown with reeds (just like the reeds Gerald threw Pearson’s finger into). We returned with a machete and  hacked the weeds back exposing a eight foot wide track with multiple turns. The obvious thing to do was see who could ride the mini-trail around the track the fastest. So, we took turns making laps around the track. Gerald was way faster than me, in no time there was a black rubber groove in the turns. An unusual wear pattern was developing on the tires, tread down the center, and bald on the sides. He kept on getting faster and then the inevitable happened. He was midway through the right hand hairpin turn when the rear wheel traction broke suddenly and completely. He and the bike both went flying through the air; he still had one hand on the throttle, and he was laughing. He picked himself up, gave the bike a cursory inspection, booted it to life, and did some more laps. Gerald had talent and nerve. I was impressed.

There also was a trail loop we used to take turns riding. It was fairly long, you couldn’t see the whole thing, but you could hear the minibike the whole way around it. After some practice, we were both able to complete the circuit in top gear with the throttle wide open except for one turn where someone had laid a mattress in the path. It was necessary to blip the throttle off for a second to round it.
We were out there one day doing laps on the trail loop and Gerald hands the bike off to me and says, “ya know, I think if I lifted the front wheel right before I hit the mattress, I could ride right over it.” I replied, “I’ll give it a try” and I sped off. The “mattress-in-the-turn” turn was in an area of the loop that could not be seen from the start/finish line where Gerald was waiting for me. As I bore down on the mattress it suddenly seemed like a not too good idea to lift the front wheel and ride over it. I had learned from spending the majority of my free time riding motorcycles in the woods, that ideas like this don’t always pan out like they are envisioned. There was the time when I was going to wheelie through that mud hole in 3rd gear on my Honda SL100. In my minds eye, I pictured my rear wheel making a wake of mud, splattering it on either side of me without getting any on me or the bike as I powered through it. Didn’t happen. The bike sunk to its axles and STOPPED as soon as I hit the mud. The laws of physics demanded that I go flying over the handlebars and land face first in the mud. The bike didn’t even fall over, the mud held it fast and upright. So, I chickened out and went around the mattress, it wasn’t a crime, in hindsight, it was a smart decision. But what I did next was a crime, I handed Gerald the bike and he said “didja do it?”, I replied, “yeah, lifted the front wheel and went right over it”. To this day I remember the look on his face as he sat on the bike and dropped it into gear. As he disappeared around the turn the realization of what I had just done began to dawn on me. Why did I do that to my friend? Well I have spent some time thinking about this. You might remember from the previous tale (see me and gerald and pearson and glen: a cautionary tale) that I was the “skinny longhaired kid who didn’t want to disappoint anyone”. As silly as it might seem, I answered a lot of questions, particularly if they started with “did you…?”, in the affirmative for fear of disappointing someone. I was a lot like that guy I asked today, “am I close to the turn off for Dzibilchaltun?” he replied “muy cerca” just what I wanted to hear, not accurate, but then, he didn’t want to disappoint me. I have since matured and realize the importance of accurate, truthful answers; and the wreck Gerald was about to have was a milestone in that maturing process. I stood there thinking those hopeful thoughts one has right before something bad happens, “Maybe he will wheelie right over the mattress and everything will be alright; if any one can do it Gerald can“. No such luck. The sound of the minibike stopped abruptly, then I caught a glimpse of it flying end over end through the lower branches of the trees. I ran down the path and found him sprawled out gasping for breath. It was obvious what happened when I saw the mattress. Instead of rolling over it, it kind of wadded up creating an obstacle too big to roll over.  Slowly he got his breath back and he sat up. His white T-shirt was ripped and dirty. It was a fortunate thing he didn’t break his neck. I picked up the minibike and kicked it back to life, then we rode back to the shop. Gerald  raced that weekend, but he wasn’t up to par and didn’t finish well. He never said a word to me about the mattress.

As I pedal along I spend a lot of time remembering the past. A Steely Dan song came up on my ipod playlist today and instantly it was ‘72 again. What a great year. Oh to be young again.   I thought about what I was doing back then, and dredged up this tale…..

When I was 14, I worked at a small motorcycle dealership in North Carolina. The job paid $1.50 per hour, but I would have worked there for free. I assembled the new motorcycles, test drove them, and did some repairs.  The new motorcycles had to be picked up in Jacksonville. They arrived in crates. 
On this particular hot August day, Pearson (Mr. Stanley to me), the owner of the dealership arrived at the back roll-up door with a fresh load of new Honda motorcycles. The bed of the pick up truck had two crates in it and there were three crates on the trailer behind the truck. Now, normally the way we unloaded the truck was to run a strap around the crates and lift them with a hydraulic lift; however on this cursed day, Pearson had something different in mind. “There are four of us here; let’s just lift them by hand, it will be quicker” he says. Pearson was a retired Marine, he had done his twenty years and could have whiled away the rest of his years playing golf or doing any of the innumerable things people do to occupy themselves. For some reason, he decided to have a try a running a small business; he wasn’t a motorcycle fanatic, I think he could have just as likely opened a boat or car dealership.  He was a fair guy, and displayed all the characteristics you would expect from a Marine.
Glen was Pearson’s son and one of the four who were present on the cursed crate day. He was in college taking small business courses and worked at the shop in Sales and Parts. He was not a motorcycle fanatic either, but he was in the habit of pushing a new bike off the showroom floor, putting a dealer tag on it, riding it for a week or two, and then picking a different one out to test drive. Man, I envied him being able to do that.  Glen argued with his father a lot, but it was excusable, it was the early 70’s and many college students were arguing with their fathers.  
Gerald was my hero. He was the longhaired mechanic, and he WAS a motorcycle fanatic. He raced AMA flattrack at the Pro Novice level (today it would be known as Pro Sport). He had raced in the Houston Astrodome and Madison Square Garden in NYC. Every weekend he and his wife, Estelle, would pack their dilapidated van up and drive to a distant venue to compete. The local Yamaha shop sponsored him by giving him a beautiful yellow, Trackmaster framed, Yamaha 750 to race. He also owned a Champion framed Triumph 750 that served as a back up bike. He could ride a motorcycle around a dirt oval very fast. It was his mistake that made crate day particularly horrible.
Then there was me, a skinny, long haired kid, with a lot of desire and not wanting to disappoint anyone.
So, after Pearson’s suggestion (as he was the boss, it was more of a command) we hesitated a moment then approached the first crate on the trailer. The three of us were thinking this was not a good idea but nobody protested.  The crate was labeled “1973 Honda CB350 purple (ugly color). Pearson and I were shoulder to shoulder at one end while Gerald and Glen were at the other. We lifted it about an inch and I faltered and dropped it. Pearson quickly pulled his hand out from under the crate and covered it with a rag. Then he said to Glen “drive me to the hospital” and off they went without saying another word.  Gerald and I didn’t know what to think; he said something like “must have cut his hand bad to have to go to the hospital”.  I felt a little responsible, however any blame I was to receive was quickly overshadowed in light of the monumental mistake Gerald was about to make. We talked a bit, joked about what had happened, and then decided we would unload the trailer with the hydraulic lift. We lifted the crate and wheeled it away from the trailer and lying there on the bed of the trailer was a good bit of Pearson’s finger. The absurdity of the finger lying there, detached from a living, breathing, body, struck me right between the eyes and put me in a daze. I had not grown up on a farm where one might be more likely to witness things like this; I had led a sheltered upbringing in suburbia and had never seen nothing like this.  My peripheral vision began to darken till I was looking through a tunnel and I felt unsteady on my feet.  Gerald walked to his tool box and selected a pair of needle nose pliers and picked the finger up with them, and held it up in front of his face and looked it over good with a solemn expression on his face. I felt sick. Then Gerald did the most incredible thing; he walked through the open roll up door, took a few steps and flung the finger over the chain link fence into some neck high reeds.

You know what happened next.

Glen arrives back from the hospital and says “where is the finger, they are going to try and reattach it”. I can’t describe the expression on Gerald’s face, but I will never forget it. He doesn’t say anything to Glen, and turns to me and says “c’mon Mark”. So, we are out in the reeds looking for the finger. To be honest, I’m not looking too hard; I don’t want to see the thing again. Some kids ride up on bicycles and ask us what we are looking for. We tell them we are looking for a finger and would they help? They don’t believe us and ride off. After a while, we give up, Pearson just going to have to live with a shorter finger, one less nail to trim I guess. Gerald starts talking about getting a job elsewhere; he thinks Pearson is going to hold a grudge. I don’t look forward to seeing Pearson either.
The next day, Pearson and Glen pick me up for work. I ask Pearson if his finger is O.K. he says “it’s O.K., just a little shorter. We arrive at the shop and Gerald starts apologizing profusely. Pearson says it was his own fault for coming up with a dumb idea like lifting the crates by hand.
So, in the end, it all worked out and we were all wiser for the experience.  In the following year Gerald moved to California to work at a dealership there and race at the famed Ascot Speedway.  My family and I moved back to Newark, Delaware and I got a job at a Honda/Kawasaki dealership. In ’93, twenty years after crate day, I was touring the Southeast on my motorcycle and decided to see if Pearson and Glen were still around. The dealership had moved into a larger building further down the road. I walked in and there they were! A lot of emotion and memories flowed through me, I was kind of tongue tied.  When I told them who I was (they did not recognize me) they were overjoyed to see me. We talked for a while and I got all filled in on what had happened to all the other guys who had worked there. At one point, I stole a glance at Pearson’s hand and he caught me, our eyes met and went back to that day. Then we quickly moved to another topic. 

I saw them one more time since then. In 1999 Hurricane Floyd hit Wilmington North Carolina hard.  Pearson and Glen were being interviewed on the national news while standing in knee deep water on their showroom floor.  They were uncertain if they would reopen.