Old School: Motoring Around

By Carol McEwen,

My son-in-law recently bought a shiny white motorcycle. He likes tooling around Arlington – at a safe, sensible speed, he assures his wife – with the wind in his face. When he’s not on the thing, he’s tinkering with it in the garage, adjusting this doohickey or adding that gizmo. He’s even recruited my husband, so they futz around it together.

The newly minted motorcyclist claims that riding relieves stress and allows him to see things around town which he often misses as he zooms by in his Jeep, rushing from one appointment to the next. His new hobby also provides plenty of TV viewing: travelogues filmed onboard a bike, like the woman traveling solo through North Africa. Other programs are on maintenance and how to care for his new toy. 

My daughter, sensible person that she is, has informed him that she will not be joining him on the motorcycle, but otherwise endorses his new hobby. I haven’t had the nerve to tell her that her mother was not so wise. My own motorcycling began at the tender age of four. 

Here’s the back story. My sister, ever the high school daredevil, was dating Joe, her future husband, who owned his own bike and roared up to the house frequently to pick her up. They’d hop aboard and drive off into the sunset amidst a cloud of dust. Since she, too, learned to drive the powerful machine, sometimes one of them would load me aboard the cycle and drive me through the neighborhood. I’d wave casually at my envious friends, behaving nonchalantly, as if my rides happened often. I didn’t know the royal wave, but I would have used it if I had. The picture shows me and my big sis after one of our rides, both looking windblown and happy. When my friend saw the photo, she shrieked, “Not a helmet in sight!” But I reminded her this was the natural selection process at work in 1949.  

There was only one problem. While Joe was a careful driver, he couldn’t start the engine and my sister could. Success required a special twitch of her hips while she forcefully jammed her foot on the pedal to make the engine catch. 

One evening Joe delivered my sister home, since she was due “in time for supper.” She came inside, but after multiple attempts, Joe had to come to the door, meekly asking for her help to start his machine. Marge went outside, starting the motor on her first try. Then she came inside, sat down at the dinner table and promptly fainted. It seems she had thrown her back out as she started the motorcycle. My mother, never great in a crisis, grabbed the pitcher of ice water from our table and dumped the entire contents on poor unconscious Marge, who came to, gasping for air and sputtering.

And they say nothing exciting ever happened in those middle America small towns back then! Obviously, “they” didn’t know our Old School family.  

Carol McEwen is a reporter for Sandestin Living, Mirimar Beach, Florida, and authored the weekly Old School column for the Arlington Sun Gazette/Gazette Leader. She may be reached at: carolwrites4fun@gmail.com.