OP
motormitch
Well-known member
As requested another story. Part Three of the minibike from hell.
Remember Alan, from the earlier story, who rode his brand new Sears 5HP minibike up THE Oak tree and did the impossible by touching the bottom limb? Well Alan plays an important role in this third installment.
Alan and I were sharing many great adventures riding our powerful iron ponies all across the land and life was really good except for one small thing. I was convinced that my parents hated me and that I was an abused child. What led me to this conclusion? Where to start? I had to go to bed at sunset every night (actually was 9:00 but that was the way it seemed to me) and wasn’t allowed to stay up and watch TV. I was consistently blamed for my little brothers bad behavior (I have two of them 3 and 4 years my junior) because I “sat the bad example”. I didn’t get an allowance like all the other kids. I had to make my bed which all I did was mess up again that night. I had to pull weeds in the garden. I had to clip the grass by hand from around the tree bases with something looked like a big *** pair of scissors. I couldn’t eat with my fingers and I had to hold the silverware a certain way. I had to eat disgusting things that were green like brussel sprouts before I could get up from the table. I suffered under little brother rules. While I could be blamed for anything they did wrong, I couldn’t hit my little brothers or nuggie their heads till their hair was in a ball or give then Indian rope burns, or eat their desert or anything fun that big brothers do to their little brothers. The list of my mistreatments was basically endless.
On one of our road trip adventures, Alan and I found an old pump house under an abandoned water tower that was one of the coolest places I had ever seen. It had big sand filled pits and massive pipes and control panels with big gauges. We started hanging out there a lot. One day while I was sharing the misery of my life (who said men don’t share their feelings) with Alan, he opened up about how horrible his life was. Wow, we were both abused children with parents who totally hated our guts. Suddenly I had what I thought was a brilliant idea (a pattern that continues to this day). We both have monsters for parents, we both are tortured on a daily basis, but we also have mini bikes, live in a free country and have a secret hideaway. We need to run away from home on our mini bikes and live in the pump house for the rest of our lives. Alan agreed and the plan was set in motion.
First, we started accumulating supplies and rations. This was mainly comic books and canned Vienna sausages. Next we needed blankets for bunking. We would have to do all of our own maintenance on the iron ponies so we needed tools. Dad will never miss a screw driver, adjustable wrench, pair of pliers and a hammer. Check, tool chest complete. Alan even brought a transistor radio. Holy **** this was turning into a palace. We picked a date to make our escape in the middle of night.
The night of the great escape, I checked everything on the mini bike and topped it off with free gas from Dad’s lawn mower supply. I decided that I should write a letter to my Mother outlining all of the terrible grievances I had, the lack of love that she and my Dad had for me and how I was left with no choice to go make my way in the world. It was a master piece and I placed in the kitchen cabinet where all of the breakfast food was kept knowing that she would see it first thing in the morning before noticing I was gone. At 0200, I crept down the hall like a church mouse, down the stairs to the basement and then managed to raise the garage door so slowly that no one woke up. I pushed the mini bike out to the driveway which was at top of a very large hill. We lived at the top and Alan lived at the bottom. I turned and looked back at house knowing I would never see it again and imagined the crying, wailing and gnashing of teeth that would soon happen. A smile of satisfaction came across my face and I mounted the mini bike to coast down to Alan house.
I rolled quietly down the hill and pulled into Alan’s driveway. His mini bike was kept in a separate storage shed so getting it quietly would be no problem. I eased around the side of the house to Alan’s bedroom window and tapped on it as agreed to let him know that I was there. Nothing. I tapped again. Nothing. I took a small rock and tapped with it to make a sharper, louder noise. Nothing. I went around to the door closest to Alan’s side of the house and trying rapping on the door softly. Nothing. I did it again louder and suddenly the porch light came on. “Dammit Alan, don’t turn the light on, we have to slip away in the cover of darkness”, I thought to myself. The door opened and much to my surprise, it wasn’t Alan standing there, but his father instead. “What in the hell do you want Mitchell?” he asked. I stammered for a second and said, “Is Alan around? I want to talk to him.” His Dad then did something which to this day I have never understood, he said, “wait a sec and I’ll go get him.” Whose father would do that today? If some kid had knocked on our door at 0200 and asked to see me, my Dad would have killed him on the spot and made me dig the hole to bury him in.
In a few very long minutes Alan comes to the door in his PJs rubbing sleep out of his eyes and says “what do you want?” I replied, “Dude, get dressed, we’re running away to the pump house.” He stares at me for a minute and says, “You’re serious about that? I thought we were just joking around. I’m way too sleepy.” Then he just turned and closed the door. I didn’t know what to do. I had never dealt with betrayal before. Should I bang on the door and when he comes back punch him one in the kisser? Should I run away without him? After just staring at the door for quite a while, I decided to go back home and talk to him the next day to reset our plans. Now I just have to push the mini bike up the hill to the house because it was running open pipe with no muffler and LOUD. The can I had stuck on the end of the tail pipe as a muffler had blow off a couple of days earlier.
When I say I lived at the top of hill, I mean a very steep hill. It almost killed me to get that bike up the hill and took forever. Finally I’m in the driveway and now I have to raise the garage door from the outside without waking up everyone. I managed to do it. In goes the bike and I creep upstairs and down the hall to my bed. I lay my sweat covered body down and immediately fall into a deep sleep from exhaustion. The next morning I get up and head to the kitchen for some tasty Cap’n Crunch. I sit at the table and look up at my Mother. She is reading a piece of paper in her hand. That’s weird. Mom never reads in the morning. Suddenly I realize that it is my farewell masterpiece. I FORGOT about it in all of the excitement. I’m doomed, dead, done. I had laid it all out there in the note and called them on all the terrible things they had done to me. I will never live to drive a car, get an icky girlfriend, and become an astronaut.
My mom just sits the paper down, lights a cigarette, blows the smoke up to the ceiling and then says to me. “Well Hell son, you sure didn’t get far did you? What’s matter, get hungry and change your mind?” Then she starts laughing. Dad shows up and mom gives him the paper and says, “John, why don’t you read all about how horrible we are to Mitchell and how he ran away last night forever?” Dad reads it starts laughing too. I bare my soul and put the harsh light of truth on all of the injustices I have suffered and this is the reaction? Being laughed at? I made a vow that one day they would be sorry.
But that’s another story……
Remember Alan, from the earlier story, who rode his brand new Sears 5HP minibike up THE Oak tree and did the impossible by touching the bottom limb? Well Alan plays an important role in this third installment.
Alan and I were sharing many great adventures riding our powerful iron ponies all across the land and life was really good except for one small thing. I was convinced that my parents hated me and that I was an abused child. What led me to this conclusion? Where to start? I had to go to bed at sunset every night (actually was 9:00 but that was the way it seemed to me) and wasn’t allowed to stay up and watch TV. I was consistently blamed for my little brothers bad behavior (I have two of them 3 and 4 years my junior) because I “sat the bad example”. I didn’t get an allowance like all the other kids. I had to make my bed which all I did was mess up again that night. I had to pull weeds in the garden. I had to clip the grass by hand from around the tree bases with something looked like a big *** pair of scissors. I couldn’t eat with my fingers and I had to hold the silverware a certain way. I had to eat disgusting things that were green like brussel sprouts before I could get up from the table. I suffered under little brother rules. While I could be blamed for anything they did wrong, I couldn’t hit my little brothers or nuggie their heads till their hair was in a ball or give then Indian rope burns, or eat their desert or anything fun that big brothers do to their little brothers. The list of my mistreatments was basically endless.
On one of our road trip adventures, Alan and I found an old pump house under an abandoned water tower that was one of the coolest places I had ever seen. It had big sand filled pits and massive pipes and control panels with big gauges. We started hanging out there a lot. One day while I was sharing the misery of my life (who said men don’t share their feelings) with Alan, he opened up about how horrible his life was. Wow, we were both abused children with parents who totally hated our guts. Suddenly I had what I thought was a brilliant idea (a pattern that continues to this day). We both have monsters for parents, we both are tortured on a daily basis, but we also have mini bikes, live in a free country and have a secret hideaway. We need to run away from home on our mini bikes and live in the pump house for the rest of our lives. Alan agreed and the plan was set in motion.
First, we started accumulating supplies and rations. This was mainly comic books and canned Vienna sausages. Next we needed blankets for bunking. We would have to do all of our own maintenance on the iron ponies so we needed tools. Dad will never miss a screw driver, adjustable wrench, pair of pliers and a hammer. Check, tool chest complete. Alan even brought a transistor radio. Holy **** this was turning into a palace. We picked a date to make our escape in the middle of night.
The night of the great escape, I checked everything on the mini bike and topped it off with free gas from Dad’s lawn mower supply. I decided that I should write a letter to my Mother outlining all of the terrible grievances I had, the lack of love that she and my Dad had for me and how I was left with no choice to go make my way in the world. It was a master piece and I placed in the kitchen cabinet where all of the breakfast food was kept knowing that she would see it first thing in the morning before noticing I was gone. At 0200, I crept down the hall like a church mouse, down the stairs to the basement and then managed to raise the garage door so slowly that no one woke up. I pushed the mini bike out to the driveway which was at top of a very large hill. We lived at the top and Alan lived at the bottom. I turned and looked back at house knowing I would never see it again and imagined the crying, wailing and gnashing of teeth that would soon happen. A smile of satisfaction came across my face and I mounted the mini bike to coast down to Alan house.
I rolled quietly down the hill and pulled into Alan’s driveway. His mini bike was kept in a separate storage shed so getting it quietly would be no problem. I eased around the side of the house to Alan’s bedroom window and tapped on it as agreed to let him know that I was there. Nothing. I tapped again. Nothing. I took a small rock and tapped with it to make a sharper, louder noise. Nothing. I went around to the door closest to Alan’s side of the house and trying rapping on the door softly. Nothing. I did it again louder and suddenly the porch light came on. “Dammit Alan, don’t turn the light on, we have to slip away in the cover of darkness”, I thought to myself. The door opened and much to my surprise, it wasn’t Alan standing there, but his father instead. “What in the hell do you want Mitchell?” he asked. I stammered for a second and said, “Is Alan around? I want to talk to him.” His Dad then did something which to this day I have never understood, he said, “wait a sec and I’ll go get him.” Whose father would do that today? If some kid had knocked on our door at 0200 and asked to see me, my Dad would have killed him on the spot and made me dig the hole to bury him in.
In a few very long minutes Alan comes to the door in his PJs rubbing sleep out of his eyes and says “what do you want?” I replied, “Dude, get dressed, we’re running away to the pump house.” He stares at me for a minute and says, “You’re serious about that? I thought we were just joking around. I’m way too sleepy.” Then he just turned and closed the door. I didn’t know what to do. I had never dealt with betrayal before. Should I bang on the door and when he comes back punch him one in the kisser? Should I run away without him? After just staring at the door for quite a while, I decided to go back home and talk to him the next day to reset our plans. Now I just have to push the mini bike up the hill to the house because it was running open pipe with no muffler and LOUD. The can I had stuck on the end of the tail pipe as a muffler had blow off a couple of days earlier.
When I say I lived at the top of hill, I mean a very steep hill. It almost killed me to get that bike up the hill and took forever. Finally I’m in the driveway and now I have to raise the garage door from the outside without waking up everyone. I managed to do it. In goes the bike and I creep upstairs and down the hall to my bed. I lay my sweat covered body down and immediately fall into a deep sleep from exhaustion. The next morning I get up and head to the kitchen for some tasty Cap’n Crunch. I sit at the table and look up at my Mother. She is reading a piece of paper in her hand. That’s weird. Mom never reads in the morning. Suddenly I realize that it is my farewell masterpiece. I FORGOT about it in all of the excitement. I’m doomed, dead, done. I had laid it all out there in the note and called them on all the terrible things they had done to me. I will never live to drive a car, get an icky girlfriend, and become an astronaut.
My mom just sits the paper down, lights a cigarette, blows the smoke up to the ceiling and then says to me. “Well Hell son, you sure didn’t get far did you? What’s matter, get hungry and change your mind?” Then she starts laughing. Dad shows up and mom gives him the paper and says, “John, why don’t you read all about how horrible we are to Mitchell and how he ran away last night forever?” Dad reads it starts laughing too. I bare my soul and put the harsh light of truth on all of the injustices I have suffered and this is the reaction? Being laughed at? I made a vow that one day they would be sorry.
But that’s another story……
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