I was looking through some old photos the other day when I stumbled across a dog-eared, wallet-size snapshot showing a pubescent Z-man (Z-boy?) sitting on a metal-flake purple mini-bike. In the photo, I'm scowling; whether that's because the sun was in my eyes or I'm holding my youngest brother, who appears to have a very full diaper, I can't recall. Of course, I was 14 years old when the photo was taken, so like most kids at that age I might just be scowling because I could. My baby brother, who was maybe 9 months old then, has a mean look on his puss as well; whether that's due to the diaper situation or the fact that he's balanced precariously over the smoking hot cylinder head of a Briggs and Stratton flathead on a hot summer day, I couldn't tell you.
Ironically, while I can barely remember what I had for lunch on most days, I can recall every single detail about that mini-bike-as well as the events that led to that Kodak moment-with complete clarity.
By the time I was thirteen, I'd developed an absolutely burning passion to own a motorcycle. Unfortunately, I had no visible means of support other than my parents, and what little income I did have I squandered on motorcycle magazines. So as soon as school let out for the summer, I started scouring the want ads and spotted an ad for a dishwasher, no experience required. The employment agency explained that the job was at a summer camp in the Catskills, and that it didn't pay much; just $100 for the season, which lasted from July 1 to Labor Day, but it included room and board, and a chance to get out of Philadelphia for the summer. The guy doing the hiring told me I was the only applicant, so if I wanted the gig...
It wasn't a bad job. When I wasn't scrubbing pots, I whiled away the time visiting motorcycle shops, trying to decide whether I'd prefer the Honda CL160 Scrambler or the Triumph Mountain Cub as my first bike, or maybe the new Suzuki X-6 Hustler. One shop on the outskirts of Monticello, NY, had a pile of old Indians and Harleys out back, and by 'pile', I mean literally. The old coot running the joint offered me one or all of them at $75 bucks per. One of my life's recurring nightmares is that I didn't take him up on it.
As the summer wound down, I was faced with some hard realities. The first was that, despite the lordly sum I'd receive for my summer's work, the camp held your check until the last day so there was no chance you'd blow the dough and take off. It was only a hundred bucks, so while there may have been a few used bikes in that price range, a new step-through Honda Cub cost three times that. Beside that, there was another issue.
Unbeknownst to anyone, up to that point I'd never actually ridden a motorcycle. Ridden on them yes, but as far as actually letting out the clutch and twisting the throttle, I was as green as the spring grass. I knew I could master the art, and in my mind I'd already ridden around the world, won Daytona, and done more trail riding than Jack Penton, but I realized that it was going to take some time before I became a seasoned rider, so maybe starting out on brand new, full-size motorcycle wasn't the best idea. It also dawned on me that since I wouldn't have a driver's license for three more years, buying something road legal wasn't a strict necessity.
Yep, the more I thought about it, the more sense it made; I'd start with something small and simple, learn to ride like a pro, and then move up. A mini-bike was just the ticket, and besides, I reasoned there'd be a lot less parental resistance to the idea of a mini than there would be to a full-on motorcycle.
The only fly in the ointment was that a Steens Taco 22 mini, which by all accounts was the best mini-bike on the planet (at least in my price range), cost about forty bucks more than I had in the jug, so I struck a deal with the Bank of Dad. If I received nothing less than a C on my first semester report card, he'd cover the difference, no pay back required. Since I was always a solid D student, I figured I could dig deep and get it done. An A in metal shop put me over the top.
The old man was good to his word, and the day after the report cards arrived, a new Taco 22 was in the driveway. Despite the scowl on my face in the photo, I've been smiling ever since.