A very hard crash

April 28th 1968 was a rainy spring day.



     Don’t all good stories start on a rainy day?

That Monday I’d gone into the local Bultaco dealer to get a new Pursang for the upcoming racing season.

Right next to the line of bright red Pursangs was a tiny Metralla, 200ccs, 166 lbs, low bars, ironing board seat. My nostrils flared, my mind raced, zoom-zoom-zoom. I bought one of each. Why not, my wife is in drug rehab, my kids are in foster care because the powers that be decided I couldn’t care for them and work too.



     Fast forward to Friday.

I finished working, put on a sweat shirt a pair of bib overalls, a rain suit, and my brand new “Bell Star” and my “Mike Hailwood” goggles. I’m ready to speed in the rain. Hoopy-Doopy. Going fast in the rain is so cool. I crossed Minneapolis, Saint Paul, up hwy 35 to Stillwater. This little son of a bitch between my legs is too damn sweet.



     On the edge of Stillwater I make my last turn, one more mile to go I thought. Now I’m cold. Roll the throttle to the stop and catch 5 gears zoom-zoom-zoom. Without a moment to react a 55 ford comes out from behind a UPS style van. Throttle is still locked. Hit that piece of crap right in the middle of the left front wheel. Took the bars and part of the cables with me. Flipped through the air 200 feet, over and over like a rag doll. Landed flat on my front with those bitty bars still in front of me.



     I laid there quite a while thinking, “sure takes a long time to die”. After a few minutes I think “guess I’m not dieing”, so I start checking the condition of my condition. My right arm doesn’t work too well, but I can stand up, “COOL”. I walk over and look at the bike, “turned to crap”, “front wheel is stuck up on top of the motor, below the gas tank”.



     I walked over to the ford. A sort of medium nondescript girl in her early 20s is standing there. I ask why’d ya run the stop sign? She mumbles something. I say “ya half wit bitch look what ya did to my bike, and I think I’m hurt”. She starts sobbing and runs over to her house and gets her husband. He comes out and throws my helmet on the ground from the fender of his Ford. “What did you call my wife?” I say “hold up there, first pick up my hat, and second, I’m hurt not dead”. I further go on to say “I’m going to heal and you’re still going to be a stupid cock-sucker and you’ll not want me bein pissed when I get right”



     About that moment a cop walks up and advises me not to go on with my threats as he’d be a witness to my utterances.



     Well neither of the car owners was licensed, the car wasn’t licensed, nor insured. They didn’t have a pot to piss in. The local hospital couldn’t handle my injury. I called my brother and asked him to get us a six-pack of Schmidts beer and drive me down to the good hospital in St. Paul.



     So Demerol and Minnesota “STRONG” 12% beer got me to St Paul.



     Before I go on with this story, someone has to get me another drink. Who’s it going to be?