If you read my post of day 4 you are probably still wondering about the remarks I made concerning “Pig manure, motorcycle riding and fond memories”. Well, without a story it is certainly hard to imagine how pig manure and fond memories can be in the same sentence but here is the true story that happened to me 59 years ago.

Hmm, where does it come from? How did I get it? When did it start? The wind in my face, the rush of cool air, the sound of God’s and man’s creation mingled in perfect harmony as I pilot my much loved motorcycle down the road.
Where does this come from? The love for motorcycles, the joy of riding and the challenges associated with it?
Focusing on those first 3 questions brings back many wonderful and some painful memories, magically retrieved from my mental archives and scrolled onto the screen of my mind. My Daddy’s face is now paused on the screen, his smile, his obvious love for me and his passion for motorcycles. Yes, those are the roots, seen so clearly now, passed down to me by my father, my friend, my hero, and memories wash over me like a warm shower, feeling his hands under my arms as I am lifted to straddle the tank just in front of him, the rusty red color of the old Austrian motorbike, the sound of the engine and here it is again; the wind in my face, the rush of cool air…

All my life have I had the pleasure of riding some engine powered, two-wheeled contraption, either driven by my dad or myself, from 50 to 1300cc, from old “rattletraps”, dripping with oil and other assorted lubricants and fluids to the new, shiny and sophisticated.

I clearly remember my first solo ride, edged into my mind forever. At 7 years of age and hardly ready to handle the weight and power of my dad’s two-wheeled ride, I convinced myself that, being able to reach the handlebars while sitting on the bike was much more important than being able to reach the ground with my feet and it took hours of contemplating and mustering up courage for me to finally walk to my father’s bike leaning against the front wall of our farmhouse.
We have all seen the picture of a person with a small white angel on one shoulder and a little red devil on the other, both whispering opposite messages into the person’s ears. Well, that certainly happened to me that day and with the enticing: “It would be soooo much fun to ride this bike alone and nobody would know about it” message in one ear, being countered by: “Dad is not going to like this” in the other, I climbed on the bike and inserted the key into the ignition. (Until that day, Dad used to hang the motorcycle keys at a perfectly accessible location just inside the kitchen door). Reaching the handlebars was not a problem and the way I saw it, just playing with the controls would certainly not be against anybody’s rules.
Ah, with my eyes closed, all the wonderful riding sensations were multiplied by my vivid little mind and I imagined the wheels leaving the ground, transforming my session into a flight of fancy but little did I suspect that the word “flight” was about to take on a whole new meaning! Touching and working the now so familiar controls one at the time reminded me of the many hours I had spent leaning against my father’s chest, watching him operate this wonderful machine. Lets see, clutch on the left (oh boy, can hardly pull it, but I’ll manage), brake and throttle on the right, (can’t squeeze the lever, but who needs the hand brake, the THROTTLE is where it’s at) and with that, I could already hear that engine, feel the wind, the cool air, …and the long ruler my Dad had used on several occasions to tenderize my butt, however, Dad was not home and would never know!
Shifter by the left foot seems to click ok, brake pedal below my right foot, (there will be no need for it but I know where it is).
Like a pilot doing a pre-flight check, again and again I rehearsed and worked the controls while blowing air though my lips and adding the ever so important sound effects and here are my Dad’s words again:” don’t climb on the bike when I am not around, it is too big and heavy for you”! Did he really mean it or was he just teasing? He probably has no idea how good I can ride my bicycle and just turning the key on his motorcycle would certainly not harm anything. “Click”, turning the key was much easier than expected, a whole lot of fun and, I WAS RIGHT, it certainly did not harm anything but twenty or so clicks later, the fun factor had dropped to just above boring and the little red guy on my shoulder sprang back into action: ”If you work the shift leaver until the little green light comes on, you can start the engine without going anywhere”! Gee, as if I did not know that, “anyone knows that” was my quiet reply and a few clicks of the shifter produced the expected little green light.
With Mom out in the garden and Dad certainly out of range, I could probably start the bike without anyone ever finding out and I slowly moved the kick-starter to the outward position and pushed the funny little black knob on the carburetor until a small amount of gasoline dripped from its bottom. No idea what the knob does, but my Dad used it religiously before every start.
Now, if memory serves me right, a swift push on the kick-starter usually did the trick for my dad and with my heart pounding, I placed my foot on the lever. “Dad is really going to tan your hide if you don’t get off the bike right now” – was countered by my own: “ahhh, nobody will ever find out” and a hard push on the kick-starter only produced a couple of quiet “pops” and two blue puffs of smoke coming from the exhaust. Hm, let’s see, maybe using both legs would do the trick and with that thought placed both legs on the lever and with all the weight, strength and force I could muster, jumped on the kick-starter, immediately discovering why it is called just that. My forceful downward motion was countered by a swift upward kick, nearly catapulting me off the bike and in the process peeling a strip of skin off my leg. “Ach du lieber Himmel”, did that hurt! Holding back tears I could hear the “I told you so” from my little halo-wearing buddy. Gaining composure and determination, I repeated the procedure and to my surprise, the engine came to life. “Shut it off and leave” was the next message coming from my white winged friend but by now adrenaline, lust for adventure and the little red man with the fork had the upper hand. Rotating the throttle and hearing the engine was a feeling I clearly remember to this day but am not able to fully describe. All I can say is that the sound and vibration of the beast beneath me created pure magic and the mixture of fear and excitement completely overwhelmed my senses. The memory of the smell of the exhaust, the rumble of the engine, my sweaty little palms and thrill beyond measure will be with me for the rest of my days! If I could only push the bike away from the house wall with my shoulder and let go of the clutch, I could probably ride through the yard (and flawed reasoning with no regard for outcome was mastered). Pulling the clutch lever was harder than expected and prying my foot under the shifter, I watched the green “neutral” light disappear and with my heart bounding beyond explanation, I strained my shoulder against the house wall and felt the bike straighten. “Just up the road and around the corner” was the ill-conceived plan and I had reached the place of no return, I HAD to try!

Turning the throttle and letting go of the clutch catapulted me away from the house wall and sent me weaving and jerking up the gravel road, just missing the picnic table and large chestnut tree that had appeared out of nowhere. With throttle control less than perfect, the fast-slow-fast-slow movement of the bike threatened to pop my head clear off my shoulders and by now, all the good things so vividly imagined just seconds ago, were squashed by reality and sheer panic and the need for survival became my fist priority. Bouncing and weaving towards the fork in the road gave me three choices.

1.) go left and head into the village

2.) turn right and head down a steep hill or

3.) jump

Option one and three were quickly abandoned and option 2 did not look rosy. The rough gravel road, bordered on the upper side by a rock wall and the lower side by a ditch, led down a steep hill, past the pig sty, a huge manure pile and finally to a large field and the orchard.
Bouncing, weaving and jerking down the hill, I frantically wanted to wake up and tell myself that this was not happening and staying away from the manure pile and reaching the large field beyond was now my primary objective. However, we all know Murphy’s law stating that “what can go wrong will go wrong” and today was no different. Murphy had seen to it that a deep tire rut created by our farm tractor had trapped my front tire and yes, you guessed it, was leading me directly to the mushy mountain of greenish-black and vile reeking pig manure and the only thing to do was to change ruts by twisting the throttle. Like magic and as if unaffected by gravity, the sudden acceleration lifted the front wheel out of the rut, catapulting me and my fathers joy into the exact location I was trying to avoid, a very deep and juicy section of accumulated Porcine excrements.

“Splat”, here I lay in the most undesirable medium imaginable and for several seconds all seemed quiet until an incredible pain on the inside of my right leg jarred me out of my stupor. To literally add injury to insult, the by now hot exhaust pipe had come to rest on my lower leg, merrily branding my tender skin and leaving a large burn mark I still carry today.
Scrambling out from underneath the bike and crawling clear of the pork juice, I realized that my first solo ride had figuratively and literally catapulted me into deep Sh#&.

So what did I learn that day you ask?
1.) Thinking things out before acting can spare one a lot of grief
2.) Dad DID find out but did not polish my lower cheeks as predicted
3.) The motorcycle keys found a new hiding place

4.) “Target Fixation” is not just a phrase

5.) Though terrifying, painful and humiliating, my first solo ride cemented my lifelong love for motorcycles and the ever present desire to ride.

59 years have passed since then and with my Dad now long gone, I still feast on the wonderful memories of long warm days with the wind in my face, the rush of cool air, leaning against my father’s chest, piloting his machine through the curves of the Austrian Alps. I am blessed and glad to have been able to carry on the tradition and pass the love of motorcycling on to my wife and daughters.

Recalling my first solo ride reminds me of “my first race” but that’s another story for another time and at last now you know why Pig Manure and  Motorcycles give me Fond Memories and why they all fit perfectly into one sentence. 

Back to day 5 that once again starts early and the weather is warm but there is no blue sky to be seen. My stomach is feeling like I have a rodeo happening in my guts and my head is spinning, telling me that something I ate or drank yesterday is raising havoc with several of my systems. Today’s plan to head down the river, utilizing a large canoe to visit a native village does not enamor me much and I head back to bed while everyone else opts for the excursion from which they return 4 hours later with tales of eating grubs and having their faces painted. My stomach feeling much better now we joke and laugh as we gear up our bikes and say goodby to this lovely place. With no blue sky to be seen we weave our way through the jungle and section of the old Inca road seem to be more slippery than ever, with rocks covered with a black fungus that threatens to take the wheels from beneath our bikes at every turn. On the way to Puyo we stop at a 1.6 km long zip line strung across a raging river, 1000 feet below. Having been working in Health & Safety for many years, I am eager to look at the cables and their attachment points and after purchasing tickets, we don our harnesses and helmets and climb the tower for a trip across to the other side. Egle and I decide that we will go side by side and after “encouraging” each other with morbid humor we are released only to be caught on the other side by a young man with a short chunk of rope!? Wow, if I had know that I would probably have re-considered, since only 15 feet beyond the catching area was a large concrete wall to greet us.

2 hours later we are back on the bikes and make our way through the beautiful Singay National Park, work our way up twisty roads and once again reach 9800 foot of altitude where we distinctly feel our bikes lose power. We reach beautiful Banos just as the sun peeks through the clouds on the horizon, find our lodging place, get the grime off our bodies and look forward to a good meal and lengthy conversations on the good’s, bad’s and uglies of the day. We once again drove through several downpours, fog, sun and cold but enjoyed the ride and each other’s friendship so very much. Adventure riding has been part of my life as long as I can remember; either sitting on the tank of my dad’s motorcycle or riding my own, but what has made a huge difference in my life are the people I have met through doing the riding. The times around the camp fires, the sometimes not so delicious food, the sometimes great food, the break-downs, the getting un-stuck times, the fixing the flat tire times, the running out of gas times and the push the sucker to get it started times, the dust times, the mud in the eye and the singing in the rain times, the freezing your butt off times and the sweat like a pig times, the stories, the laughter, the tears, all of it has made my life so special. 

To bed at 10 Pm and off to dream land; adventure riding at it’s very best!

 

 

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