I Leaned My Motorcycle Against a Woodpile

And wondered what I was thinking

I whizzed through the fields at 30 miles per hour, the smell of freshly cut grass heavy in the evening air, riding my motorcycle up the hill to the garage. A well-worn path that I had traveled many times before, usually late for dinner. I downshifted earlier than usual, wanting to feel the last ounce of horsepower before parking the bike forever. I leaned the bike against the woodpile.

This was 1973, I was 16 years old when I sold my motorcycle, a Kawasaki 90cc that I had rigged for “off-road” use with knobby tires and a flexible plastic front wheel fender, for the cash to buy a Nikon Nikkormat 35mm camera with a Nikkor 50mm lens.

That weekend, my Dad would drive me to the camera store. I wondered what could be better than the fresh air blowing through my hair, jumping over streams, and splashing through puddles.