We Grew Up In A Different Time

It was another golden fall in the Pacific Northwest.  I was in elementary school, full of spirit and not a lick of worry other than playing tackle football at recess, trying to get picked first for dodgeball and working hard to impress the cute red haired girl in my class with the hypnotic green eyes.  When it was time for square dancing lessons in PE we would count our spacing back from the front of the boy’s and girl’s lines so when paired, we could be partners.  Promenades with her made my month.  Her hand fit into mine like it was made to be, a missing puzzle piece to who I was.  Life was simple.

Fall was woodcutting season and to prepare for the dark, deep winter months my dad piled my brother Darin and I into our 1972 Ford F250 and headed deep into the forest.  Sometimes we rode in front but mostly in the bed.  Driving into the endless depths of the mountains seemed to take forever, but my brother and I savored every second of the chilly fall mornings as the cold blue sky passed overhead.  Skyscraper pines towered and smelled glorious while orange tamaracks scattered themselves around like orange polka dots among the green.  Early dawn mornings were invigorating but the experienced like us also knew they gave warning that the long winter months were stalking close behind.

I still love cutting firewood.

Our chainsaw was a Mac 10-10, a brutal, unsafe beast that was heavy, loud and vibrated like a brick in a washing machine.  It would kick back at any failed start attempt and had a metal handle with no hand guard to guarantee that if your cold morning fingers lost grip on the dew covered handle your digits could slip right onto the running bar.  However, when that Mac ran full tilt boogie with a hand sharpened blade, it gnawed through wood like a sexually frustrated beaver during mating season, wood chips flying everywhere in angst and anger.  I kept that saw into my late 40s until common sense and self preservation kicked in.

We had sideboards on that old forest service F250, so we piled wood higher and higher until it rose far above the cab.  Since my brother and I were used to riding in the bed we just rode on top of the wood pile without a second thought.  The view from the top of that wood pile made us feel like kings on a throne with a grand view from our perch, all the better to peer down the sheer drop of the mountain roads.  Choosing a stable piece of wood as your seat was key because if the log you were sitting on slipped, you tumbled off the pile of wood down to the road below. The fall was not the most dangerous part, it was the chance my dad would not notice he had lost an offspring and just keep driving, leaving us behind in the forest.

Splitting the wood took all day and made me horribly thirsty so I kept the garden hose running and drank often, which helped wash the beer out of my mouth because when we went woodcutting that was what my dad brought us to drink.  When the wood was split I fired up the old Honda Trail CT-90 and rode down the street to the nearby empty field for a celebration run.  Sometimes I wore a helmet, sometimes not, because of all the things I did as a kid growing up, riding a motorcycle was probably the safest.

Picturing those events in the modern lens, they seem ludicrous.  Imagine the lawsuits if a modern elementary school let students play tackle football at recess, or picked teams and played dodgeball, or had boys and girls hold hands and learn to square dance.  We can guess how quickly someone would get pulled over if they had two young boys ride in the back of a truck on top of a wood pile, wood chips on their jeans, beer on their breath.  At least today’s garden hose water tastes better.

Compared to everything in my childhood, riding a motorcycle was tame, relaxing even, as safe as riding my Schwinn Stingray but without the burden of pedaling and sweating.  Our risk tolerance was different because we knew what we were capable of.  The world was to be explored and conquered.  It should be afraid of us.

A 1969 Honda Trail CT-90 I fixed up a few years ago, very similar to the one I rode around on in my childhood.

Today, it is the other way around.  Sheltered lives bring a fear of the world.  Younger generations recoil at the idea of ditching two of the four wheels they are used to then riding off, balancing the whole time.  It all sounds dangerous, and is likely the most dangerous thing they do.

It is dangerous indeed, and the real reason more young people are not taking up the sport.  In a society obsessed with safety, it is difficult to convince a young person to ditch a car with airbags, climate control and a touchscreen and throw an engine between their legs.  Motorcycle manufactures can analyze statistics, buying habits and roll out shiny cheap bikes aimed at new riders all they want, but nothing they can sell in a showroom will convince a distracted generation that they are more capable and resilient than they think.  When motorcycle manufactures find a way to package and sell resiliency and grit, they may get the new bike sales they have been seeking.

Some boys never grow up.

Maybe we should let kids play tackle football at recess, let them pick sides and play dodgeball, and for sure take them woodcutting in the fall and give them a garden hose to drink from when they are thirsty.  As the scrapes and bruises accumulate so will the grit and resiliency.  But while the accumulated scrapes heal and bruises fade, the grit will remain.  Then, give them an old Honda Trail 90 and cut them loose.

And for sure, for the love of everything innocent and pure, teach them to square dance.

Ted

*Any of you live a similar upbringing? Share some reflections in the comments below!