Best Wheelie

For some unknown reason, I was on the back of my future brother-in-law’s 1968 Triumph Daytona, a 500cc twin-carb version of the original Speed Twin, with extended forks attached to an un-raked frame.  It was sometime in the early ‘70s, and we were headed northbound on old Military Road, poking along behind some old lady in a Rambler who apparently thought the speed limit was for radicals.  Chuck was even then known as having a short fuse for incompetence, especially that which impeded his forward progress, but traffic was heavy that afternoon and opportunities to get around the old biddy were few, so I could tell he was starting to fume as we approached the five-way intersection that marked the turnoff to Boulevard Park.

When it became obvious that the golden girl was intending to go the same way we had to go, he lost it, and made his move, just as she carefully pulled into the intersection and blocked three cars waiting for their turn.  Chuck dialed up the throttle and jumped around her left side, clearing the corner of her front bumper by a couple of feet.  I was hanging on to his jacket for dear life.

Unfortunately, the various delineators of where the lanes were supposed to go were all those plastic bumps, like upside down thick Frisbees glued in patterns to the asphalt, and we hit the first of them just as he grabbed second and gave it full throttle.  You wouldn’t think a 500cc motorcycle with two big guys aboard would be capable of such a move, but this one was a bit of a hot rod and reached for the sky.  I remember feeling the seat move out from under me, and, for a moment, my feet left the passenger pegs and I was flying, only my death grip on two handfuls of leather and my own inertia keeping me attached.  The back tire hit the same Frisbee and brought the seat back into contact with my butt, unaccompanied by the foot pegs, so my legs were waving in the air as Chuck somehow brought us back to earth in time to swerve back on line and escape the cluster of vehicles, all stopped, with uniformly open jaws on their drivers’ faces.  He never did get off that throttle till we blew through the light at Des Moines Way.  I remember roaring with laughter when the adrenaline rush hit, but I seem to recall I had to change clothes after we got home.  Ah, yes.  Young and Dumb, Young and Dumb… :-{)}