3 Wheels, 9 Lives...

 

When I wrote about Mike not knowing when to quit, I didn't certainly didn't intend anyone to think I emerged from years of all out three wheeler riding completely unscathed. Nothing could be further from the truth. I had my moments, too.

A particular incident in that regard comes painfully to mind. While Mike got messed up the third or fourth or fifth time around, I only took one try to wreck myself.

While I said three wheelers were inherently safe, they were also unforgiving little sods. You had to treat them with respect, or nurses would be treating you with antiseptic in the hospital. Putting your foot down in an argument is one thing, and every Scotsman I've ever known lays claim to that sovereign right. Putting your foot down on a three wheeler meant you got your heel ripped off. Maybe your lower leg. You just didn't do it.

One thing those trikes could do was climb hills. Man, could they ever. Mike and I found, early on, that we could conquer almost any hill with them if we ran up with the front tire just an inch or two off the ground. That was for every possible ounce on the rear tires, while keeping from going over backwards, because that was a very BAD thing going up a steep hill.

Our trikes were the same make and model, but differed in two aspects: Mike's was on heavily worn tires, and mine was on new Dirt Dog tires on the back and a heavy knob, extra wide tire on the front. And my wheeler had cargo racks, front and back.

Dirt Dog tires, for those unaware, were tractor tread tires; super aggressive. They gave excellent flotation, and just fantastic traction. The thing was, fantastic traction is not always your friend. If Mike's trike, going up a hill, lost traction, it might gain it again, but in a gradual manner of slowly stopping wheelspin, which was somewhat controllable and predictable. If mine lost traction, it could hook up again completely in a flash, like cogs in gears, resulting in a lightning wheelie, with potentially calamitous results.

One evening Mike and I were heading to the Falls. We had this exceedingly bad habit of crossing the train trestle. On our three wheelers.

We knew better, because we got caught on the trestle one time like the boys in the movie Stand By Me, except we didn't manage to get off. We had walked across the trestle, heading West, exploring, when an Eastbound train happened to come around the blind curve ahead. We couldn't beat the train to its end of the trestle, so that was out of the question. We couldn't run the length of the trestle back to the other end ahead of the train, so that was out of the question. And we sure wouldn't likely survive a jump off the trestle into the little Foresters Falls creek frighteningly far below, so we had only one option: get back to the stand out maintenance platform halfway across the trestle and hang on and ride out the train's passing there. We made it, with a little time to spare, but, boy oh boy, when a train's crew had no idea there was someone on the trestle, and weren't throttled down for it, that made for a rough time. The trestle shook far more than you'd ever think. Like it was going to collapse, and it was tough to hang on. There wasn't much to hang on to in the first place, and, to add to our dilemma, we found that a fast moving train, passing by so closely, creates a suction towards it, which required us to hang on and brace ourselves against. The absolutely deafening roaring and screeching and squealing of the steel flanged wheels on steel tracks just heightened the terrifying aspect of the whole thing. That'll put your heart in your throat; take my word for it. We were just yelling into each other's faces, "HANG ON, HANG ON, HANG ON!" We couldn't hear each other over the train and all the cars, but I'll tell you this: we had no problem reading each other's lips and facial expressions.

We made it, but we had a LOT more respect for how quickly an Eastbound freight could overtake you around that bend. And, no, we couldn't hear it coming, either. The bush to the West muffled the sound. A Westbound was no problem to detect because you could see and hear it for miles down the Kerr Line.

After that, we applied the Wild West technique of getting down on our hands and knees and putting our ears to the rail to listen for it telegraphing the approach of a train. No sound equaled GO.

Anyway, after all of that, we had decided to romp across the trestle, to head for Black Rock. It was a real short cut taking the tracks like that. The approach to the trestle was really steep, and coated with the ballast typical of all train tracks. Mike and I fooled around climbing a distance from the end, but the end was just too steep. And loose. We were just about to head back to where we could climb onto the track with a controllable approach across the rails, when I was seized with a 'Do or Die!' desire to take on the worst part. I ripped around into the field and took a run at it. I couldn't hit it too hard because the incline was so sudden, but a little momentum never hurt anyone; only the sudden stop. Mike realized I wasn't with him and turned around to see me going straight up there. The trikes weren't loud so I heard him yell my name. Phooey, I'm going.

I made it over three quarters of the way up, and could almost see the rails, when... I momentarily lost traction on the loose crushed stone ballast. I said "momentarily" because that's all it was. Before I could even reduce my throttle thumb pressure, those Dirt Dogs hooked right up again. That was the risk with my kind of tires and a really steep hill.

My trike instantly reared up and right over. I found myself way out in the air, upside down, looking backwards down the hill at the green grass far below. From the rearing and the geometry of the hill itself, I was thrown backwards quite a piece behind the trike. I landed on the front top of my head so hard my neck made a big (pretty scary) crunching sound, and my chin was driven into my chest so hard I felt tooth enamel spray inside my mouth. I was now somersaulting backwards down the hill, not tucked in, but full length, like Gumby. I could hear my trike coming straight down above me, somersaulting as well: thump thump, thump, thump, thump, thump...

Knowing that my 300 pound trike with its steel cargo racks was going to make my day a really bad one at the bottom of the hill, I thought fast, and did a handspring on the next somersault into a landing position way down the hill on my feet. I was strong, athletic, and as agile as a mountain goat in those days, and I made good use of it then. I landed on my feet and leaned into the hill and quickly crab-walked on my hands and feet sideways as my trike went tumbling past me, faster now: thumpthumpthumpthump and out into the field.

I was shaking my head and trying to realign the vertebrae in my neck when Mike pulled up. "Holy shit Dan!"

"Yeah, that sucked".

I wasn't too much the worse for wear other than a sore mouth and a really sore neck.

We figured my wheeler was toast after a wreck like that. That was a long, fast, hard roll. We rolled it back onto its tires to stop the gas from pouring out. And just because it looked kind of naked upside down like that. Its handlebars were bent down below the gas tank on both sides. We each stood on a footpeg and lifted up on the handlebars and they dutifully rotated back into position. We tried starting it and the battery died trying to do it. It was too flooded. About 15 or 20 pulls of the rope, though, and she caught and soon was running as good as ever. Other than bent racks, you couldn't tell anything ever happened.

Unless you were watching me still trying to reset my crunchy neck.