1969 L’il Indian and Rupp Mini Bikes

Initiation

My infatuation with motorcycles started with a broken arm. It was the summer of ‘69, and a group of us were heading out to Fury Speedway, an abandoned ¼ mile racetrack in our hometown of Fabreville, now part of the city of Laval in Quebec. The derelict track was a great place for teenagers to hang out, and the perfect place to have fun with a motorized vehicle without worrying about the constabulary. My friend had just acquired a used mini-bike, the kind with no suspension and a Briggs and Stratton engine, and we all wanted to see it run with a chance to test it for ourselves as well.

When my turn arrived for a lap, I was seriously excited. This would be the first time I would be in control of something that didn't require any pedal power. Although only 3 horsepower was on tap, it seemed like a speed demon. With a wide-open throttle I rocketed down the straightaway and headed into the first banked turn. I entered about mid-way on the embankment at about 30mph and without letting up on the gas, continued on through the curve at such an angle that by the time I was about to exit the turn, I was right on the outside edge of the track.

I should mention at this time that this track was not in very good condition. Chunks of pavement were gouged out of the track in many places and bits of concrete, stone, and broken glass were littered about everywhere. As I negotiated the obstacle course of debris, I finally ran out of paved surface, and, I must admit, control as well. Over the embankment I went, never once letting up on the throttle, or ever thinking of the brake. Things happened very quickly at this point.

After hitting a pothole, the mini-bike flew in one direction while I continued in another. Except for a plume of black smoke and severe flooding of the engine, the mini-bike came to a rest unharmed a hundred feet outside the track at the bottom of the embankment. I didn't do as well. I skimmed along the ground, tall grass and weeds whipping at my face, until I was stopped rather suddenly by a large and rather hard stone. My first ride was complete.

As my friend ran down the track in my direction crying "my mini-bike, my mini-bike", I jumped up quickly and pretended nothing had actually happened. Instinctively I checked on the little bike to make sure it was ok and that I would not have to pay for any repairs.

Once I was sure I was in the clear, I started to notice my own condition. My face was burning, and my left arm was very sore. By now everyone was around me and to tell the truth, I have absolutely no idea what anyone said. My arm was getting more sore by the minute, and I was quite concerned what my parents would say if they learned of my little mishap.

I headed back for home and was greeted by my sister who had a shocked look on her face when she saw me. Checking in a mirror, I, too, was surprised by the numerous grass burns on my face. I quickly jumped into bed as my arm was excruciatingly sore at this point, and waited for my parents to arrive. I told them I had fallen off my bicycle and was all right. In those days, unless you were obviously missing a limb or something, the trick was to simply take an aspirin and see how you feel in the morning. No rushing off for the hospital.

As it turned out, I got into a fight a couple of weeks later and was pinned by my opponent. Shaking like a leaf, I knew something was wrong; not only because I felt weak as a kitten, but because I was beaten as well. X-rays later showed that I had a clean fracture of my upper left arm and, because of the location, would need only a sling. I milked that injury for over a year getting excused from my hated gym class at school.

It was this introduction on my friend's mini-bike that made me want a mini-bike of my own. What a rush!