The Barnyard Incident
Story & illustration
George Dotson
W
e all remember our first time — family watched, I sat on the seat while the entire As I sat there with the Cushman on its
the anticipation, self-doubt, the lesson of motor scooter operation was given to side like a beached whale, it’s smoky side-valve
performance anxiety. Sometimes me by my brother. It consisted of: “this is the heart racing, I had two thoughts, first, that was
we plan it and sometimes it just happens. We gas and that is the brake, don’t crash”. That was the coolest 20 seconds of my entire life and sec-
should wear protection but seldom do. It can the sum total of my schooling in the fine art of ond, there was no way my parents would ever
have big consequences if we’re not careful. I two wheeled motor vehicle control. It sounded let me on one of these things again. Exhilara-
did it when I was nine and it changed my life. simple. tion and despair ricocheted through my thoughts
For My brother’s 14th birthday, our dad . Both were crowded out by my brother stand-
bought a used 1949 Cushman Road King. This
was a step-through scooter with balloon tires, a T
he next few moments are still a blur. My ing over me yelling that if I had wrecked his
brother kick started the engine to life and scooter so that he couldn’t make the ride home,
5hp flathead engine and a two-speed transmis- said “GO!” I cracked the throttle, the centrifu- I was dead or worse. I just sat there grinning. I
sion. John’s scooter was not the coolest ride in gal clutch kicked in and I went. Then my brain was hooked.
town. But, cool or not, the old Road King was froze. This was nothing like my bicycle! It was
red with swoopy ‘40s styling and it had a motor. more like riding an orbital sander on steroids,
That last bit alone was enough for a skinny 8 all vibration and noise conspiring to confuse A
s it turned out, the Road King wasn’t
damaged. John gassed it up and cruised
year-old kid like me in dusty southwestern and disorient me. All things are relative and it’s home a short time later. It was his only road
Oklahoma, just waking to the sound of an inter- amazing how fast a wheezy 5 hp scooter can trip. He somehow avoided being infected with
nal combustion engine. I wanted to ride that seem when compared to a little leg powered bi- the motorcycle disease and in a few months
scooter in the worst way. As it turned out, I cycle. I shot across the barnyard with my broth- moved “up” to a brown, 6 cylinder ’51 Chevy
did. er running behind yelling “stop, stop! turn! that was even less cool than the Cushman. I
Taking the “Road King” name literally, TURN! Slow down!” I could do none of those didn’t see that scooter for another four years
John putted off one hot Sunday in August of things. My brain was in sensory overload. Our but, the experience of my first ride lit a fire in
1954 on a solo ride to our grandparent’s farm Grandfather’s milking barn loomed ahead and I me that still burns five decades later. When I
45miles away in Altus. These days, the engine was powerless to do anything about it — classic turned thirteen, the Road King finally became
in my Harley is just getting warmed up in 45 target fixation. The world slowed down as I shot mine. As it is so often with first affairs, I quickly
miles but, on a scooter with a top speed of 45 across the barnyard…except for the last 1/10th outgrew it and moved on. Since then, a lot of
miles an hour, a round trip of 90 miles was a of a second when I center-punched the side of bikes have come and gone from my garage but
ride of epic proportions. I was full of envy as the barn. That went real fast. I had hit the broad I’ve never forgotten that first time in the barn-
my parents and I followed in the car an hour side of a barn. The cows would give cottage yard that was the beginning of a life-long love
behind to give my brother the illusion of self- cheese for a week. affair.
reliance.
O
ther than the usual bugs and sunburn, the
ride was uneventful and John made it to
the north side of Altus in long a couple of hours.
Now, I’m pretty sure that what I took for swag-
ger on his arrival was just a mild case of mon-
key butt. At the time however, his strut was just
too cool for words.
After the usual lunch of my Grandmoth-
er’s amazing fried chicken, hot rolls and iced
tea, we went outside so that the grownups could
visit while John and I knocked around in the
barnyard. For at least the hundredth time, I be-
gan to pester my big brother about letting me
ride his scooter expecting the usual rejection.
Then with what had to be Divine Intervention, a
miracle happened that Sunday. My father sim-
ply said, “Let him ride it”. Whoa. This was my
big moment. Excitement, then doubt shot
through me. My bluff had been called. What if
I can’t do it? Then I thought, I’ve been riding a
bicycle since I was six, that’s a third of my
young life. How hard can this be? As the whole
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