Hell on wheels


I remember the 8th grade. That was when we all turned 14, and where I grew up that meant one was eligible for a license to operate a motorcycle. An exclusive cadre of classmates, all male as a matter of fact, suddenly were elevated to god-like status when they began to appear for school astride motorcycles. Every motorcycle I remember was either black or white, and the engines were a whopping 90 cubic centimeters, whatever th’ heck a centimeter was. Still, they were “hogs” to us earth-bound pedestrians. It also was the first product any of us had ever seen from a strange company called “Honda.” We losers consoled ourselves with the hilarious notion of a Japanese motorbike.