The Unauthorized Biography of Rosco P. Coltrane

When it's my moment in the sun, I won't forget that I am blessed, but every hero walks alone, thinking of more things to confess

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Location: Owensboro, Kentucky, United States


Sunday, August 07, 2005

The Ghosts of Summers Past

I talked to my dad tonight and he was driving back from the Allstate 400 at The Brickyard in Indy. We talked for a while, and I bragged on the Bar-B-Q sauce that I made for the church cookout. After I got done talking with him, I thought of a time more than a decade ago when we were traveling up to Chicago and had a brief detour in the middle of Nowhere, Indiana.

My dad and I rode his motorcycle up to Chicago to go to a bike show (a quick sidenote on motorcycle shows, explaining the birds and the bees to a adolescent is vastly easier after said adolescent has attended his fair share of motorcycle shows) and see a Cubs game. He had just recently bought this motorcycle and had yet to put any saddlebags on the bike. He did have a pair of throwover saddlebags that were velcroed together.

My dad packed them up really well and threw the over the back seat, my seat on the bike.

We were going up the highway and were cruising at a pretty good clip. Pretty good clip being around 80 m.p.h.

Well, we were cruising when I felt my right calf get really hot. I looked down and saw a little bit of smoke coming from the right saddlebag. I poked my dad on the shoulder. He looked over at me and I pointed my finger down towards the saddlebag. By now, the smoke was rolling out.

Dad slowed the bike down and stopped on a overpass. We both hopped off the bike really quick.

Dad ripped the bag of the bike and threw it down an embankment. Doing this, hot plastic splattered on his hand. He still has scars from the plastic. (If he was telling you this part of the story he would show you the scar. Then he would talk about how I asked him if it hurt and he told me "Well Hell yes it hurts.")

By this time, I am really shook. I am scared. I am still pretty young at this time. I am almost in tears.

Dad looks over at me and said, "Son, that was bad. But it could have been a lot worse."

I nod my head and said, "Yeah, it could have."

He puts his hand on my shoulder and said, "It could have been all of my clothes that burnt up."

My dad had pack all of his clothes in the left saddlebag and all of my clothes in the right bag. Evidently, he didn't have enough room in his bag for his stick of a very lethal smelling and highly flammable Brut deodorant. So he put it on the bottom of my bag. When the bag sagged and hit the exhaust pipe, it ignited. Causing a chain reaction that went from a wonderfully funny and scarring Father-Son talk, to him buying me a pink shirt, a pair of shorts, and a pair of underwear at a Chicagoland K-Mart, and me meeting a very drunk Harry Carey after the Cubbies game.

Sorry about that hand dad, but it's good for some laughs now...


Blogger Drew Caperton said...

Few things seem more odd to me than a durnk Harry Carey. The man already seemed a little off his rocker...

If that story was in a comic book, your dad's hand would have been totally coated in plastic, which would have rendered it totally impervious to anything short of a nuclear explosion. But it wasn't in a comic book, it really happened...

8:58 AM  

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