Fathers Day

As you all know, father’s Day was this past weekend, and I hope everyone honored your father appropriately. Being no slouches here at ThreeGoat, we can not allow for our own patriarch to escape without proper recognition.

Dad can make anything. Sure, right now you are saying to yourself, “anything? Really?” Yes, anything, really. Glowing eyes for a jawa costume? Done. A bitchin’ street go-cart? Absolutely. A mud eating cross between a dune buggy and an ATV? No problem. A mini-bike? Yes. A mini-bike with a conventional throttle and any semblance of brakes? Not so much.

It’s not that he couldn’t make a mini-bike with brakes and a safe to use throttle, it’s just that he never got the chance. When I was about 8 or 9 years old, Dad set out to make for SomeGoat and Me a mini-bike. Oh the joy we would have, hitting the back yards with the wind in our hair, the 5 minutes of freedom and bliss until we had to let the other have a turn. But alas, it would never fully happen, and I, I’m afraid, am to blame. Dad was letting us try it out before it was completely finished. The only things left to de were to attach the throttle cable to the handle bar, and put the brakes on. The temporary solution was to manually pull the throttle cable up from where it was between the handlebars, and to stop, push it back down. Simple enough, right?

SomeGoat went first and scooted around the corner of the house and emerged from the other side with no incident. Now it was my turn. “Don’t pull the throttle all the way up”, said Dad.” It takes it a while to build up speed.” So off I went around the corner of the house, and I was going way too slow. Yes, I pulled the throttle all of the way up, and yes, by the time I had gone around the next corner I was moving at a much more suitable speed. As I started to approach the turn that would take me between our house and the neighbors I realized that even though the faster speed was fun, it wasn’t conducive to turning. This was also the time that I discovered that I need both hands to steer, which left me no hand to push the throttle down. After managing to narrowly miss the neighbors house I rocketed around the last turn and flew past my family, who were unable to help because they were doubled over with laughter. So off I went through the backyards of the neighborhood.

If you ask any eight-year old boy if boots go with shorts, he will say yes. And if you ask that same boy if the slick bottom of those boots will stop a motorbike on grass, his answer would be no. So with no onboard brakes, and the Flinstone option being ineffective, I was hurtling through the backyards, thankful that none of my neighbors had fences. There was, however, a big concrete drainage ditch at the end of the neighborhood, and I now found myself with a backyard and a half before I got there. Toes. It finally occurred to me to dig my toes into the ground. I’m sure Mr. Fleming was not very happy about the two ruts that I dug through half of his yard, but it slowed me down enough to push the throttle down and come to a stop mere feet from the ditch.

I strongly suspect that the events of that day were enough for Mom to rid us of the bike. So to SomeGoat, I apologize that you only had the one ride, and to OtherGoat, I apologize for all of the rides you never took, and to Dad, if you want to build another, I promise I will wear better shoes.

Happy Fathers Day!!!