March 12, 2003
One cylinder ride down memory lane
By
Herald Editor
It has been 20 years since I walked into a house reeking of 32-to-1 ratio exhaust fumes. The offensive odor has brought back musty memories.
This past weekend, I took a 12 horsepower trip down memory lane - and around several pine trees. I was instantly transported back to soggy felt liner boots and foggy goggles. Unlike H.G. Wells' time machine, mine required a pull start.
While some neighbors borrow a cup of sugar (like they intend on returning it), last Sunday I borrowed a 1969 Ski-Doo Olympic. Now when I get behind handlebars, it usually is a recipe for disaster. However, the afternoon snowmobile ride cooked up by my neighbor left me hungry for more.
I forgot how fast 20 mph can feel. Something else slipped my mind and lower vertebrae - the feel of a 34 year old snowmobile suspension.
While this was my first traverse of the Hoosier Valley trail system, the ride brought back several one cylinder memories.
Like other Midwest folks, our family owned a snowmobile in the 1970s. However, their ownership probably lasted longer than one ride. Shortly after moving to Michigan, my New York City father won - of all things - a snowmobile. It was good luck and the right raffle ticket that brought the sled into his possession. Bad luck (or equally poor steering) sent the machine into a tree and dad to the hospital.
My father sold his one and only snowmobile before the cast came off his arm.
Thus, while growing up, I had to visit my cousins to risk life and tree limbs. Their house was surrounded by farm land which meant plenty of wide open spaces to run a 1971 Ski-Doo at full throttle. Thankfully there are few oaks to circumvent in a hay field.
However, we had to get dressed before we could break the sound barrier.
First came the thermal underwear, followed by Toughskins, Detroit Lions sweatshirt and wool socks that slipped to the bottom of your boots. Our exoskeleton consisted of Bombardier snowmobile suits, open face helmets, goggles, and gloves pulled up to the elbows. Now in a full-lather sweat, the order was quickly reversed after that third glass of O.J. hit your bladder.
Typically it took a half-hour to prepare for a ride that might last 15 minutes before a drive belt broke. Then again the whole excursion might be abandoned for a televised Godzilla vs. Mothra bout.
Admittedly, there is another reason for my rose-colored face shield remembrances. The reality is I'm trying to justify my latest knee-jerk acquisition: a 1972 Ski-Doo T'NT purchase for the paltry sum of $50. The good news is that unlike my last project vehicle, this one might run. The bad news - it's tough sledding in August.
On the way back home Sunday, I rode my neighbor's nearly new Arctic Cat. It absorbed bumps in the road better than Robert Downey Jr., accelerated like Jeff Gordon and unlike the current U.S. economy, never stalled. After five minutes of riding, I was bored. I guess I'd rather cling to idealized notions and unheated handlebars.
Our past has a way of lingering, whether it smells of musty memories or just plain stinks. I try to keep my mix at a 32-to-1 ratio.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or e-mail gleiva@gtherald.com