York Wings: Motorcycle Olympics

Restarting the bike, I once more pressed down on the gear shift to ensure I was in first, gave it a bit more throttle, and - it stalled again. Now I was getting a little mad and certainly embarrassed. Started the bike again, double checked that I was in first, and gave it a whole handful of throttle. The engine let out a soulful groan; the Yamaha crept six inches forward, shuddered and died. I was exasperated. "What's wrong with this clunker?" I looked down and then it finally dawned on me. The Yammie boasted rear-

A Grand Valley Rider: egg and spoon race

sets and the shift lever had been reversed to accommodate them. The shift pattern was now the opposite of what was normal, and instead of putting the transmission in first, I had inadvertently ended up in fifth. No wonder I couldn't get the bike rolling.

Too bad my thought processes, though still functioning, were somewhat lethargic in my current state. <Hic> Now that I knew what I had done wrong, I was positive my next attempt would be a success. And it was. I just wished that I had not gotten so used to using so much throttle on my initial attempts, because the bike shot out from under me like a missile.

There the bike lay on the ground, and there I lay on the bike. Quickly I jumped up and with unexpected strength hoisted the bike upright. I saw some dirt on that flawless custom painted tank and instinctively wiped it away with my hand. To my horror, I saw with my rapidly sobering eyes that I had left behind a deep scratch in the paint with the zippered sleeve of my jacket. Then I discovered the broken brake lever. The blood rushed to my face as I realized what I had done.

Doug was nowhere to be found. Instead, I found the proprietor of a motorcycle dealership in Barrie, and he offered to help me find a replacement lever. So off we went to his shop. Unfortunately he had nothing in stock that matched the broken one, so I purchased the closest match he did have and returned to make the part exchange. Doug finally surfaced from wherever he had disappeared to, but he didn't seem too perturbed by the incident. I offered to pay for all repairs to return his pride and joy back to its earlier pristine condition; he just waved me off and left to take a nap.

To this day I still feel bad about damaging someone's ride and avoid riding anyone's bike no matter how much they insist.

The last Olympics that I attended was just after I had gained myself a wife, and traded my XS 11 for two street enduros. We came up for the weekend with her Honda 185 in the bed of our pick-up. Recently licensed, she was eager to participate in some of the field events, but was a little hurt when some complained that she was cheating by using a small bike. Despite this minor unpleasantness, she had a good time. She didn't win anything, but she was happy with her decent showing as a new rider.