"You can't have a motorcycle"
When I heard that, I knew there was something special about having a motorcycle that I didn't yet understand. It was forbidden. My teen age self had a new focus, and goal.
1980 Yamaha 650
Fall of 1981. I had just turned 16 years old. This was my first motorcycle. It came from a used car lot across from the Dairy Queen in Tullahoma. Price was something like $500. The picture above is not my bike. Mine had no back rest, many scratches and some dents and dings. It had been stolen, wrecked, and pretty much abused. There was no key, and where the ignition and key should have been, there was a toggle switch. The engine ran smooth, and I bought it.
I asked my buddy Scott Koon if I could keep it at his house. He said yes. They had motorcycles, a house full of boys, and knew how to work on stuff. All three things I had missed out on so far. Scott, his older brother Andy, and his father, Ray, all rode. I didn't tell anybody but Scott about it. The bike stayed there till Christmas eve, when it showed up at our house with a big red bow. The gift tag said, to Steve and Daddy, from Santa.
Before Christmas, in the afternoons, after school, I'd go over there and ride. Scott's house was close to Thompson Equipment, off Hwy 55. The back roads between there, and AEDC were perfect for exploring and riding. I never had a proper driver's license, and didn't get caught. The only problem I remember having is the chain came off one day. This was way before cell phones, so I had to knock on a door to borrow a phone. I had no idea where I was, and the lady gave me her address so Scott could come pick me and the motorcycle up.
Scott knew most everybody, and told me Oliver Lowe used to own that bike. Oliver lived on Mill Street in Manchester. This made sense to me, because the bike was rough, and Oliver was a tough kid on a really tough street.
My parents were not amused by Santa's generosity and awareness of what I wanted for Christmas. My dad thought it was funny, but he couldn't let it show. My sisters gave me a hard time because I could get away with some things, being the youngest child. My parents told me I couldn't ride on the road. So I rode around the cattle pasture when they were home, and the on road in Mount Vernon when they were gone.
1976? Honda XL350
The next spring, I decided I wanted a dirt bike. Greg Solomon had a Honda XL350 at their service station he was trying to sell.
It was a lot like this one, with a big metal gas tank. I don't remember any mirrors. I asked Greg about trading. My 650 was newer, but had issues. He said maybe we can. He asked if he could see the Yamaha, so I took it up there. I had the bright idea of leaving my Yamaha, and taking his XL350 back home with me to "try it out" first to make sure I wanted to trade.
I took Greg's Honda toward the pumping station on the gravel and dirt roads. It was awesome. The single cylinder motor had a lot of power compared to the Yamaha's v-twin. About a half mile from the lake, I ran it through a long dry pothole to try to get a little "air." As I exited the pothole, the motorcycle got out from under me. The motorcycle and I both skidded to a stop. I was ok, the motorcycle was ok. But then I smelled gas. It had knocked the gas cap loose, and fuel ran down on the hot motor and even hotter exhaust. During this time, on TV, MacGyver, and the Dukes of Hazzard were always blowing things up. In my mind a giant fireball, and explosion was only seconds away. I had a brief moment to do something, but the gas smell was strong, and I hesitated. Sure enough, it started smoking, and quickly caught on fire. All I could do now was back off and watch. The fire got to the metal gas tank, which heated up, and under that new pressure, spewed flaming gas straight up into the air ten or fifteen feet. Both tires, and everything else was burning.
Out of no where a TVA guy on a back hoe appeared. He saw what was happening. I asked him if he could dump some dirt on it, and put out the fire. He said he wasn't getting near it.
I walked the two miles home. I felt bad about Greg's bike. I didn't know what he would say. In my mind we were still trying the bikes out. I went to see Greg the next day and told him what happened. He smiled and said, "Sounds like we just traded."
Greg was three or four years older, and wiser than me. He was 100% right. It was my fault. But at the time I wasn't happy about the trade.
It would be two long years of daydreaming and saving till I got another motorcycle.