Eastern central New Mexico is about as flat and geographically unspectacular as anyone would expect from an area called the High Plains. Geometrically sound towns are formulaic from start to finish. Avenues and streets run north to south; drives and boulevards run east to west. There are no cities; it's just miles and miles of nondescript, perfectly gridded suburban sprawl.
Clovis, New Mexico, my home town, was one of these. It boasted a 10 storey hotel and a 7 storey city hall, kind of pathetic, really, but a pleasant place, none the less.
My family lived in a standard-sized suburban lot with some vines and fences at 600 Sandia drive. From the front, it pretended to be adobe up to the roof, where it became something else. It would be called a ranch in New England, except that it wasn't made of wood. It was stucco, chicken wire covered in plaster.
Streets had alleyways between them wide enough for dump trucks to get to the dumpsters. As a child, these were my favorite routes from A to B and points beyond. I could see into backyards sometimes, each one a little insight into the owner's mind.
Two alleyways intersected behind our house, forming a T. We would go out, my brother and I –sometimes with our sister – and we would ride our motorcycles down the alley to a field near Barry Elementary school.
Our dad would escort us most of the time, to make sure we didn't do anything stupid. We were a little family-sized fleet of motorcycles, my brother on his Suzuki 125 cc, my sister or me on my Honda 100 and my dad on his Honda 450.
My brother was the more adventurous. He fearlessly raced around the trails, trying to perfect jumps and speed into turns. He loved to spray dirt on anyone standing near the track. He handled the motorcycle same as I handled my bicycle. What we called an "enduro," it was made for off-road, with lights and signals making it street legal.
And it was light. On the few occasions he dropped it, he picked it right up. Mine was proportionately heavier, especially in relation to me. Being older, my brother was probably 40 pounds heavier, but the bikes weighed almost the same.
I had never really had a lesson other than stop and go. Decked out for a street-riding midget, the Honda fit me better than my brother's fit him, but the suspension wasn't meant for potholes and jumps. All I did was find flatter tracks and will the thing to do what I wanted. Basically, I learned to use my weight to maneuver it as I drove in dirt circles around the field.
It didn't always work out well, but the worst that ever happened was running through Yucca plants or brambles—until one day when my brother had to mow the lawn. I must've been about 9 years old.
Dad brought out the mower so my brother could cut the grass. We kept the motorcycles parked beneath a fiberglass awning at the right side of the yard and dad threw me the keys, telling to move the bike.
I kicked it started and eased into the saddle. Pulling the clutch with my left hand, the transmission clicked lightly as I stomped it into gear.
New Mexico is hot during the summer. On the average August day—like this day—it routinely breaks 100 degrees. People sweat just for standing, and I had been out playing in the yard. After all, I was 9.
Starting to let the clutch out, I gave it a little gas.
I remember having wiped the sweat off my face with my bare hands then wiping them on my jeans. Well, it turns out denim isn't all that absorbent.
The clutch lever slipped from my sweaty palm and engaged the transmission, causing the bike to lurch forward, throwing me off balance and forcing me to hold on. The only solid grip I had was on the throttle; as I jerked backward under the strain of momentum, my right hand twisted the throttle higher.
I rode the length of the fence, screaming. Bare wood shredded the end of the grip just inches from my right hand, and I managed to avoid the first three support beams of the stockade fence, some by only millimeters. When I finally returned my left hand to the handlebar where it belonged, I realized I was headed straight for the house. This distracted me from the support beams, one of which was approaching rapidly.
The beauty of hydraulics is that the brake lever doesn't pull all the way in unless there's no brake fluid. So when the brake lever hit the beam, my fingers weren't crushed. The brakes did what brakes do, stopped the bike. The bike did what physics dictated: it jammed the front wheel into the fence.
I flew up and over the handlebar, flipping and landing on my back in the overgrown grass.
I remember hearing my sister scream and my brother yell to our dad. He was kneeling over me before I even realized that the ride was over, saying my name and asking if I was okay.
I was fine. I said something prophetic like "ouch," or "oops." I remember how glad I was that mom wasn't home.
When the motorcycle and I were both standing again, dad gave me a look of assessment. I was fine, and it was fine. "I told you to move your bike," he said, holding out the keys once more.
I hadn't even had time to replay the scene in my head or to be scared. "Okay," I said. I got back on and moved it to the front yard, avoiding fences and all other structures.
That was 30 years ago.
Since then, I've upgraded from 100 cc to 1450. I've fallen down a few more times, and I still try to avoid running into things.
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