My brother’s bike

A Kawasaki 900.

It was probably a 1988 or 1989 model.

I don’t remember, but it was a beautiful bike.

Dark blue and way too much power for a teenager to handle. Heck, my Suzuki 650 that I bought four or five years later in Montgomery was way too much for me to handle — but I digress.

I was a teenager — maybe the 11th grade — and I don’t want to brag or anything, but I had a motorcycle license. In its wisdom, the state of Alabama wouldn’t allow me to drive four-wheeled vehicles at 14, but drive the far more dangerous two-wheel type?

That’s just fine.

David was my brother and he spent a lot of time working on the road at construction sites.

The Kawasaki was also his.

I had my own car at the time that I appropriated David’s Kawasaki. It was a 1973 Dodge Gold Duster. It had an imitation snakeskin roof and some type of clear plastic over the seats, which took a little while to get used to. It had a slant-six engine and while I forget the horsepower, it was just a beautiful car — especially for a punk teenager.

I liked my car, but the motorcycle was way cooler. David made the tactical mistake of leaving his motorcycle undefended at mom’s house. So, what’s a little brother to do when the older brother is away?

Exactly.

It was loud. Either it didn’t have mufflers or they were really bad mufflers or they were just designed to be as obnoxious as possible.

I am going for the last.

I hate loud motorcycles, but the cool factor was just too great to pass up.

And, as I said before, this bike was way too much power for me to handle. In the 11th and 12th grades, I would leave school around 11 o’clock or so for trade school in Prichard, which was right beside Vigor High School.

On this day, I took the Kawasaki. As 11 o’clock approached, I sashayed over to where the numerous other bicycles and motorcycles were parked, beside the cafeteria and the track. I climbed aboard the beautiful Japanese creation and cranked it up.

Did I mention the mufflers?

My friend Tim later told me that although he was clear across campus he heard the bike engine engage. It was kind of like experiencing a rocket crank-up.

It was a beautiful feeling pulling away and heading south on Highway 43. I was happy just to be able to use it for a few days and show off on a bike that I clearly had no business riding.

How cool was it to be a clueless teenager and ride such a cool bike when you’re 16 or 17 years old?

Occasionally I’d borrow other stuff too like say, blue jeans. If David was foolish enough to leave his blue jeans at my mother’s house, they were fair game. And a bonus if there was money in the pockets!

I have a few tools that he loaned me now and then through the years. I can’t return them to him because he was killed in a tornado in Louisiana.

At some point, he grew out of motorcycle riding, as most sane people do. I did (but I am not making any claim on sanity). I was encouraged to stick to four-wheeled vehicles when I almost became roadkill on Interstate 65 over the Mobile River Delta when a lady in a van drifted into my lane.

I’m not sure what triggered the Kawasaki memory. I long ago filed it away in a dusty file folder in my mind. Maybe that’s what happens when you lose someone close. The dusty memories want to seep out every now and then and remind you that they’re still there and longing for a simple ride in the open air.