Ive posted this before, but was thinking about it today. A snapshot of my youth... His name was Willie, if memory serves me correctly. A wiry little boy with wild hair and perpetually filthy face. He lived with his Mom in a huge pink house at the very edge of town on Hwy. 32. The house was in terrible shape, and the yard looked like a landfill site. We were maybe ten or eleven years old, and played together one summer, as I lived nearby in what was considered the bad part of town. Willies Mom looked like a garden troll, her makeup slathered on and powdery. Women in Winkler didnt commonly wear a lot of makeup in those days, and I thought she looked rather odd. “Oil of Olay” bottles lined the window sills for some reason, hundreds of them. I thought that was a bit odd as well. Willie and I were playing in the junk on his yard one day, the grass and weeds as high as our necks. Beside the crooked garage I found a most curious engine. It was beside an ancient rusted washing machine, so I made the assumption it had powered this device years ago. It was clearly gas powered, and had a kick starter. We found a gas can in the garage and began trying to start it. Eventually it came to life, blowing blue and white smoke with an impressive exhaust note. Later that week, I found a homemade mini bike frame. A primitive attempt, but it was a true treasure. It had a belt drive pulley welded to the back wheelbarrow wheel. My mind began to race at the prospect of building a functional mini bike using the washing machine engine as a power plant. Prior to his death, my Father sold watches out of the trunk of his car. There were hundreds in the basement, each proudly displaying “Made in Korea” on the back. Between the two of us, Willie and I didnt have two nickels to rub together, but we certainly had watches. We lugged the bike frame and engine to a welding shop a block away, and negotiated having the engine welded to the frame in exchange for a bunch of watches. Im not entirely certain, but I think the old welder did the job out of kindness for the two fatherless imps in front of him. There were many logistics to work out regarding how to stop the vehicle once one got underway. My first approach proved terribly wrong, when I thought grabbing the spark plug wire would be a perfect way to terminate the engine. We did, however find a solution by covering the carburetor with one hand, thereby choking the engine and digging our runners into the gravel to stop. That summer we drove to the Winkler dump countless times. With 2 on board, it had a top speed of 4 or 5 miles per hour. Willie had a pellet gun, and we would shoot rats and blow up discarded televisions day after day. Eventually the engine gave up. I think the direct drive stressed the old motor to extinction. Willie moved away, and Im certain somewhere a little boy is discovering the rusty mini bike frame and dreaming of freedom on the back roads...
Posted on: Tue, 16 Dec 2014 22:17:14 +0000
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