Norm was obsessed with motorcycles early in life. He would gaze at the ads in National Geographic for the Harley’s with clean cut drivers rolling down the road, the open road with the wind right there in their face. He could almost smell the hot exhaust and the sound of power. Up to this time, He had driven an older friends Sears Moped. It was a heavy bicycle frame with a small lawn-mower engine that was kinda neat and He would wonder why this slightly older man would allow him to drive it.

No problems really with the hunger that man had for friendship. He was a loner and not deviant as you already may be thinking. He was a bit odd like Norm and had no friends to speak of. The Moped was the man’s path to friendship but Norm did not respond to that so well. He had three friends that were troublesome as was Norm. The usual. ‘broken home’ was the whisper around the neighborhood and as a puzzled and angst driven boy, Norm joined his friends in trying ropes around burning barrels that people had near their garages and anticipating the flaming collisions as the barrels would swing back on the car.

He got caught by his father on that one and as per usual, was beaten in the basement with a wooden dowel rod. “Don’t cry, I’ll make it worse!” Stalag 17 in a North Minneapolis stucco house. His father had to take the heat from the neighborhood but Norm didn’t give up his accomplice. Besides, the other guy lost an eye when a .22 cartridge in one of the barrels went off. Enough pain for him for a bit.

So one day, another older guy drove into his alley and rolled up with an old Harley flathead 74 and asked Norm if he would buy it? Hundred bucks. By this time Norm’s father had been tossed out by the court and immediately Norm sold all his ham radio gear and bought the old bike. Investing the rest of the money in Ape hanger handle bars, Chrome plating the spring style suspension and putting on up-swept megaphone mufflers along side the chopped rear fender,it was ready for his version of Marlon Brando’s ‘Wild one’ and it was just in time for his senior year in High School.

It was loud and showy and the suicide clutch and the kick starter completed the image. Norm was despised by the staff and student body at his high school. Straight A record in Quadratic equations, solid geometry, physics and so forth completed the image. He may as well worn hair shirts and sandals and no one would have noticed. After all, he had a hook-his mother was attendance clerk down stairs next to the assistant principles office. She was a blond looker, single and ample insulation for Norm to be a bit outrageous. Grace was given. His mom had the principle wound around with her typewriter ribbon and a reduced sentence was given now and then. Mom knew the score.

He drove the chopper to the graduation party way up north and on the way thought there was pursut by a flying saucer. It had a yellow light that lit up the highway and it made no noise whatever. Parked on the side of the highway, all he could hear was the tink tink of the cooling exhaust pipes. The old Harley had a top speed of about 80 and gas was cheap back then. Usual party. Keg of beer and lots of odd behavior and now they all were ready for the world. Right. The chopper got sold for the gas to get out to San Diego where Norm and a classmate, Harry Rood, tried to sell encyclopedias, dressed in their graduation suits. They drove an old Nash till they got to the Seligman Arizona and it blew a head gasket on it’s last gasp of mountain climbing. A white Packard that used a lot of oil was traded for and they made it to San Diego.( More on that story in the column ‘Santa Fe Super Chief’)

They ate stolen oranges and grapefruit from the neighbors trees and never sold anything. The old briefcase from a brief stint at Minnesota Institute of Technology was handy to put the purloined fruit in for the trip back to the apartment. Preparation for life. Stumble around old Dago town and spend all you money on peanut butter and bread. The Lord was watching the comedy and already preparing Norm for his destiny. They boys improvised life as most of us do, thinking we are in control of..something.

God is patient. It’s pretty good.

Jack Gator