Vintage Vertigo

Cleared for Takeoff (The Honda QA50)�
By Flay Dinkelbach

What was it about being a kid that compelled us to pitch our bodies from perilous, bum-scrunching heights? Were we driven by some latent avian instinct, or were we, as they used to say, just a bit "Foggy in the crumpet"? As a matter of reckless routine, we leapt from precarious roof tops, dangled from the tallest trees and rocketed our Schwinns from ridiculously steep and spindly ramps. No challenge was too high or too insane - and the longer the air time, the greater was our satisfaction. Tucked within the wails of our eventual downward spirals, there was always that split second - a fraction of time in which we dared believe that willful flight was within our jittery grasp. And the hushed airiness of it - the silky breath of a hypnotic sea shell on each ear, whispering, ".spread your wings." And then we'd cackle, GASP, and brace for the reality of an agonizing and joint rendering crash. Despite the pain, and the prayerful oh-mommy-please-help-me horror, we stubbornly arose with judicious intent to jump from a higher rung. Peter Pan, Ultra-Man and the Flying Nun - how did they do it? Could there really be a way? In time, we stashed our bicycles, ropes and ladders and graduated to our first ever mini-bikes. And, boy howdy, they satisfied our need for air travel like nothing else. So let's talk about it. Let's see if we can remember what it was like. You can be sure, that when I was a kid, I was patently and excruciatingly foggy through every crevice of my crumpet. And that's why I feel qualified and compelled to investigate the following parallels. If it's possible for you to admit that you were adrift in the same swirling fog, then I'll ask you to hang in there and we'll try to figure this all out together. And we will start in Arizona. 1971 Let's say that you are an eleven year old slogging through the mind-numbing murk of an insufferable family vacation. Let us also say, should anyone care to notice, that you are of an advanced maturity and clearly capable of wielding some serious Ninja weaponry. You are the covert operative that the 16 year old blonde in the "Canyon Gift Shop" has been secretly stalking. It's a fair bet that any girl in the gift shop could be yours for the taking - if only the orange and purple stripes in your knee-high gym socks didn't clash so dreadfully with your decayed Converse All Stars. You just might be, though, the coolest dude ever. Ah, but not so cool (or so far removed from Mom's whacking radius) that you couldn't humor the folks and wearily follow them up the stone steps to the observation deck. Another humiliation. Another love lost and left pining amid the gift shop gaudery. And all for the sake of another sweat-stained and stupid tourist trap. But destiny finds you and exposes your arrogance. You cautiously sidle up to the frail and rusty railings and, for the first time ever, you behold the Grand Canyon. Or rather, you become a part of it - part of the supernatural dreamscape. It envelops your periphery and it sucks you in. All at once, you are above and united - spacewalking through a vast and three-dimensional movie show. The distant rock towers could be three or three-hundred miles away, yet you absentmindedly reach for them as if they were a holographic boondoggle. The tourists around you are slack-jawed ghosts - all nervously reconfirming their footholds and all testing the integrity of the ancient hand rails with sheepish tugs - lest the magnetic pull of the canyon should snuff them over the edge. That would suck, because then you'd have to fly out to rescue them. And that's what the canyon does. It makes the eleven year old brain believe that it is possible. Eventually, you gasp convulsively, allowing the rush of oxygen to fuel and sort your scattered thought patterns. Up till now, it was all Babes and BB guns. Up till now, you were the indestructible motor that made the world go 'round. But right now you are nothing but a speck on a speck in the dandruff of the cosmos. You've never been so completely entranced - because you flew. You will hear the family calling and you will be reluctant to go - greedily clinging to the sensation. But you will fly again - in about one year's time. Hang on. I'll go back to '72 with you. I'll just need to get my coat... Oh, and could we stop by the ATM? I need to get some new waffle grips for my 185 - and some Castrol bean oil. 1972 Making the monumental leap from age 11 to 12 was exasperating and filled with smoldering conflict: The door to adulthood stood before us, slightly ajar, but impossibly heavy. Sometimes we wanted to kick it open to finally collect our car keys, shaving kits and deeply mysterious female relief maps. Sometimes we retreated from it to build a few Lego battleships. And sometimes we knew exactly what it was that we wanted: All my desperation for the want of two-wheeled wantonry centered upon the top of page 44 of the Sears Summer Catalog. They were offering up (to an immensely appreciative public, I was sure of it) an array of the most achingly beautiful mini-bikes you ever saw. And oh the hours I spent with that catalog pasted to my sweaty summer lap. The bikes came lavishly adorned in three popular colors: 1) "Lightening-Bolt Blue" 2) "We-Had-Some-Leftover-Wheelbarrow-Paint Red" and 3) "We-Seriously-Screwed-Up-This-Batch-Of-Yellow Green" I prayed for one of each. With blubbering desperation, I prayed by the hour. It was rumored that Chatsworth Chatterley III, who lived nearer to town (and was therefore rich and worthy of our contempt) had one of each. This, of course, only made him more contemptible. It was further reported that he, with unwavering huffiness, refused anyone even a brief spin upon his bikes - warranting huge, sloshing bucketfuls of boiling contempt. He, with his puffy hair and perfect shirts. It wasn't fair. Also part of the local blather was the ridiculous claim that his bikes could top out at an outrageous 70 miles-per-hour. That seemed a bit far-fetched to me. The particularly imposing way in which the bikes were displayed atop page 44 affirmed achievable rates of only 60 or 63 M.P.H. - certainly not 70. Either way, I had to have one. Nothing else would do. You could have offered me any other motorcycle on the planet and I'd have declined. Such was my singular madness. But - and here's that ol' destiny thing again.. Along comes a phone call from the Robinson boys up the street. Apparently they had just been bestowed with a Honda mini-bike; and would we like to come on over and take a ride? "A Honda huh? Well, o.k..I guess we could come ride." (But perhaps we should first hammer you over the head with the Sears Summer catalog.) The prospect of having to suffer tiresome humiliations aboard a lesser and, indeed, Japanese product was buoyed by a single thought - I would show them the pictures. They would despairingly see their own folly and I'd patiently wrap a kind and conciliatory arm around them to ease their anguished cries. I would then make a solemn promise to share my Sears mini-bike. The poor buggers. So Mom tossed me, my brother Sir Fredrick and sister Barb into the back of our "Faded-Into-Oblivion Blue" Dodge Dart and chauffeured us onward into an improbable epiphany. It would be the very last time I consciously enjoyed any part of any ride in a four-wheeled conveyance. * The Robinson boys were already hard at it when we arrived. And of course they were. If I'd actually had a mini-bike, my butt would have been permanently vacuum sealed to the seat. Turns out, what they had there was (and still is, I'm sure of it) the cutest little mini-bike ever made. And you're gonna laugh when I tell you - it was a yellow Honda QA50. And it was heading right for me. My head thrumming - I couldn't even hear its approach - but got a real good look at Dennis Robinson's face, and his beaming face said, "I am at one with giddiness". He putter-putt-putted right up to me and handed it over. Holy smokes, what an incredible little machine! This thing made the Sears bikes look like anemic little stick figures. A real tank! A real Fisher-Price-primary-yellow and candy-coated-with-lemony-goodness gas tank! And suspension too! I climbed aboard and she just felt perfect. The MX style handlebars were a comfortable fit and filled me with an odd consuming confidence. I wanted to pitch her sideways down a dirt lane. I wanted to leap her off of loading docks. I wanted to spray chunks of loam from the rear tire and bash the berms at Smith Road Raceway. But of course, I had never ridden before, so first things first. * Anyone's maiden voyage on a motorcycle is a hilarious and wobbly affair. Manic over-compensation seems to be every newbie's preferred method of steerage. Couple that with clumsy, head-snapping throttle crankage, and you've pretty much got yourself a good half hour's worth of rodeo-tainment. Just because it isn't a bicycle doesn't mean it's any more difficult. Once you get past the ponderous mid-section, figure out the shift-gas-brake sequence and finally understand that momentum will smooth your trajectory, it's actually easier. You don't have to pedal. You don't have to work harder to go faster. And so it was with my (er...I mean, the Robinson's) QA. * I did everything right. I step-clicked into first gear, eased on the throttle and waggled away at 5 miles-per-hour. It was a little daunting at first - that the little 50 could jerk so willingly with such an easy twist - but we straightened out in short order and taxied toward the Robinson's country lane. This was it. This was gonna be good. The control tower guys in my head were shoulder to shoulder, hoisting champagne glasses and smirking proudly. I was cleared for take-off. Remembering to roll slightly off the throttle, I stepped into second gear... .. and trembled into adolescent madness as the fiery breath of summer gushed into my gaping mouth and watering eyes. Sadistic branches emerged with startling speed and whipped at my cringing face. Birds shrieked and scattered. Bugs exploded on my forehead. Logic and bravado swirled in my wake and struggled to keep up. It was as if Mother Nature, suddenly outraged by my disruptively rowdy presence, hurled rocks and trees and torrents of blistering wind before me in an effort to crush my senseless, rampaging heart. I sneered and accelerated, slapping her aside with a wild swoop of my left arm. "Outta my way, woman!" The QA roared gleefully onward and I laughed mindlessly - being both stupid with joy, and charged with electrified panic - happier than I had ever been. I became aware that this incredible little being could, on my behalf and at my urging, eagerly conquer all that lay ahead. I lifted with high hilly thermals and plummeted, twirling into cascades of rutted cloudscapes. It couldn't really have been so blissfully easy, could it? A thousand seminal satisfactions with just a twist of the right hand. And I was in control of it all. It was hard to fathom. I could buck or weave as a result of mere thought - piloting the wild scramble of my own personal roller-coaster. It was as close as I had ever come to trespassing in super-hero air space and I celebrated by enthusiastically yanking the front wheel over any rise in elevation greater than a beetle's butt-crack. (And yeah, I know it was just a QA50 - possibly the weakest species of motorcycle to ever inhabit the earth - but even at its worst, it was boat-loads faster than any Sears catalog fantasy. It was a tangible personality exuding the hot, diesel-shop sweetness of mechanized sweat, gas and oil. And I drank it all in. After all, I was just a kid. A kid saturated in hayseed naivet� and completely swallowed up in the moment.) There was a hydro-electric hum pulsing in my ears, but wafting within it emerged the distinctive song of the QA. An eerily familiar putter-wheeze-putter-whistle. I hammered down on 'er and listened intently. No way ..it sounded just like George Jetson's sky car! And the tank - it was almost exactly the same shape! My brain staggered and I had to roll off the throttle. For a second there it felt like we had actually come off of the ground.. probably just got caught up in the frenzy. I looked around embarrassedly as if some giggling entity was nearby and privy to my hallucination. Moments later I was flying. Eyes wide shut and gas wide open. The sensation was breathtaking. Was I three feet off the ground, or forty? Weightless, and with an insane temptation to lift my arms before me "Superman style" I felt I could float from the seat, gracefully release the spent first stage of my little yellow rocket, and soar away under my own power. And yet, I couldn't let her go. It was as if we were of one mind. If I could think it - she begged to do it. When I asked, she gave. When I finally eased back, her song faltered with disappointment. But Sir Fredrick needed to get a load of this thing, and I couldn't wait to watch him ride. With a quiet smile, I rolled to a stop and dreamily opened my eyes. ("Zoinks!" quoth Shaggy.) I was trapped square in the middle of a riotous clamor. The Robinson boys and my siblings circled 'round like predatory wolves, yelping and gesturing wildly. And there stood Mom spanking her watch with an angry index finger. Apparently, I had seriously over-run my allotted time. I stepped off and graciously offered my (er.I mean, the Robinson's) bike to Sir Fredrick. He snatched it from my reach and spat in my direction as he puttered and wobbled away. I kept a knowing smile. He would be taken by the magic soon enough and, as well, lose the relevance of time. Mom though, like I said, was wearing a watch and too soon she needed to get back home to get supper started. I caught my last glimpse of that particular yellow Honda QA50 as we exited the Robinson's driveway. Dennis and Doug were cramming it into a crowded, dark and moldy storage shed. It was like watching two thugs wrestle Raquel Welch into an outhouse. I slumped, aghast. On the drive home I imagined myself racing the QA alongside the Dart; whamming open the throttle, slaloming between the mail boxes, jumping every ditch and churning billows of dust from every driveway. I was smiling an arrogant little smile as folks dashed from their doorways; some cheerfully waving and some spellbound with reverence or envy. You could see it in their faces. The yearning. If only they could have one just like mine... ..and then, without warning, came the pain. I was suddenly heart-sick and feverish for the want of one. For the want of my own "Tweety Bird Yellow" Honda QA50. The pain grew incrementally and with unbearable swiftness. Like a rotted bloating grapefruit packed into the loneliest corner of my aching gut. It would eventually become engorged with the foulness of jealousy and greed and burst. And when it did burst, it would spew forth a raging fire-hose of babbling and sorrowful pleas, such as, "Oh Mom, could I please oh please oh please oh please oh please?" Mom and Dad weren't exactly "rollin' in dough" and any feeble attempt on my part to actually beg for such a thing would be met with impatient rationalizations, leaving me writhing in shame and frustration. But I had to have one. And, as it happened, so did every other kid in the surrounding neighborhood. The secret was out, and as the summer of '72 sputtered and cooled, Lodi, Ohio flourished with the dense blooms of colorful Japanese mini-bikes. 1972.5 Three weeks seemed like three years and we were still the only family without one. I was inconsolable. You could hear them darting about outside my bedroom window and every once in a while I could barely see Tim Green and his brother Phillip jockeying for position around their lake. Tim took some pity and once granted a ride on his Trail 70. I was still hopelessly lost in the lust for a QA so, of course, I hated it. Who could ride such a thing? The handlebars were pinched and too low. If you weren't a horribly disfigured hunchback with arms growing straight out of your chest, the Trail 70 was an ergonomic nightmare. It was like riding a saw-horse and steering with a T-handled allen wrench - but slightly less comfortable. My second-story bedroom became the only reasonable refuge. From there I could monitor the endless procession of "The Chosen" and determine who was riding what. The stacks of mini-bike and mini-cycle magazines that littered the floor aided in the identification process. The Sears Summer Catalog was relegated to the bathroom and reserved for "lavatorial" emergencies. Daily I lay languishing and listening. I imagined being out there with them. I would crook my arms upward as if they were attached to an invisible pair of grips and, in my fantastical state; I was blowing by every one of them. I had the local landscape memorized and spent hours musing over which gear I would use as the topography rolled or muddied. Mostly, I just wasted what was left of the summer and whimpered like a little girl. Today The Honda QA50 was, really, way too small and underpowered to be of much use. Even as mini-bikes go, it was barely capable as a trainer. I can't even fully understand why we had to have one so badly. Madness, I s'pose. First cuts are the deepest ergo first loves are.what, blinding? It actually was our first mini-bike - it had to be - it was all we knew and it made one heck of a first impression. I would love to get my hands on another one someday, if there are any left, just to putt around on and maybe float again - like we did back in.. * ...We were gathered around the breakfast table on a Saturday morning. I was slobbering through some Fruit Loops when I heard them - Tim and Phillip cruising their back yard again - happily racing into and out of our view through the kitchen windows. I immediately withered and sank into another blue euphoria - barely aware that I had milky drool stringing from my mouth mixed with intermittent bits of cereal that plopped back down into the bowl. And barely hearing dad chuckle. He slammed his palm on the table and I snapped alert. "That's it, I've had it!" he shouted, "Go get your shoes on!" "Huh? Wha.?" "Let's go get you kids a mini-bike before I lose my mind!" The words ricocheted around the kitchen like a cannon blast of shadowy Superballs. With some concentrated effort, I snatched them one by one and arranged them in their proper order. Did he say what I thought he said? My knees wavered, buckled slightly, and I thought I might just collapse. But I was the first one to the back seat of the Dart. Because I flew.