Haven't we all fantasized about doing things we could never do, in places we've never been? Isn't this what prompts portly, old men to migrate to Arizona in mid-winter, slap on spikes, don mitts, and, for a few thousand dollars, play hardball hero with a collection of major league has-beens?
We understand that Walter's character and exploits have been defined by several authoritative sources as "ineffectual". Au contraire, he dared to dream, and should be looked upon as intrepid...even if only in the minds of those similarly afflicted.
The most profound, and longest-lasting of what we'll term my "daydreams" was inspired by out-and-out wanderlust; a trait that should be totally out of character for a newly-minted classroom teacher, loving husband, and father of two pre-adolescent kids. The year was 1968. A television series of one year's tenure called "And Then Came Bronson" provided my "kickstart".
As he revs his engine a couple of times, a tired, beleagured Willie Loman type in an old sedan peers out his driver's side window alongside, and asks Bronson, "Taking a trip? Where to?" Bronson thinks a moment, then replies, "Oh, I don't know....wherever I end up, I guess."
The Willie-type muses, "Man, I sure wish I was you", to which our hero replies, "Really? Well, hang in there." With that, our guy tools off, down that long, lonesome highway, bound for another destination where he's never been, to encounter people he's never met, and doing things he'd never done.
Every Tuesday at 9:00 pm, Bronson had this "Easy Writer", peering over his shoulder....taking notes...dreaming dreams of a white, silk scarf, trailing behind his Viking-green bike helmet, as I tooled off with him to wherever we'd end up. Ah, for the life of the two-wheeled cowboy!!
This life vicariously lived absolutely could not end with the last entry of the series. What followed were several stretches of serious dreaming in order to devise a plan that'd sell the worthiness of motorcycling to the loyal opposition in our household. The price of a gallon of gas was spiking toward (gasp) one dollar. A bike could save countless cruzeros at the local pumps. I could leave the ever-thirsty Ford Bronco in the garage, and save it for commuting to school during foul weather days. And, according to "those in the know", two wheels are far more maneuverable than four in a multitude of road conditions.
Still, there was a niggle of doubt that this argument couldn't seal the deal. The clincher would be an advocate who would be both friend and owner. All three of these criteria were met by my guy, good ole Myron. "g.o.M" accepted the request without a moment's hesitation. Have bike-will travel was his credo.
On a scale, flanked by A) jumping for joy, and B) putting her foot down, the Bride leaned toward the latter, but discretely witheld judgment. And Judgment Day did come, assisted by the presence of friend and second cousin-by marriage Myron, along with wife Rena, and his magnificent riding machine. Myron was going to make my day, impart his teaching expertise, and sway a certain skeptic about ownership's virtues and values.
The rationale was in place. Now, it was time for the moment of truth. At the top of our hill, Myron climbed aboard his 250
Herein, the story takes a twist, a turn, and a dip, just as did all the dream-adventures of Mitty in Neverland. Walter, at the crucial moment prior to reaching crowning glory, invariably came up short. The fuel tank in his Sopwith Camel went empty, just as he was about to administer the Coups-d-grace to the arch-enemy Red Baron. Or, his surgical nurse would faint at his feet at the instant he was replacing the last segment of cerebral cortex in an historic brain-transplant.
With yours truly, the undoing was a hole, dug by our mole-hating hound, "Trusty Rusty". It lay obscured by the tall grass of our elysian field, just a few yards in front of Myron's Honda, as my faux leathers rippled in the rush of downhill acceleration.
My dear friend, my mentor, my guide had no clue what hit him when the front wheel of his bike was swallowed by that hole. In an instant, he vaulted over the handlebars like he was shot from a cannon. As he fell to the turf, he reflexively looked up in a daze. A nano-second later, he was buried in a Swedish avalanche in the person of moi. Witnessing the entire spectacle turned debacle from a living room window were his wife and the Bride. Game over. Adios, Bronson. Check back with me later, Walter. Much, much later. Something a little more tame, like maybe a zip line exploit with the grandsons would work.
Epilogue To this day, if asked, Myron would probably concede that his face still seems to be a little flat on one side. The same held true for his Scrambler, but to a much sadder extent. It was never the same after absorbing the hole trauma. My mentor, his wife, and the two of us still see each other fairly regularly. We laugh, and we josh, but for some inexplicable reason, that summer afternoon in '68 hasn't been recounted by any one of us.
