Экс-студент из Квебека вспоминает, как покупка мотоцикла и последующая потеря лицензии превратили его в «бандита»

If I ever see my bike again, I’ll have to bring it back home By Maurice Crossfield Every now and then I see one. Maybe in a parking lot. Maybe out on the road, chrome glistening in the sun, engine thumping rhythmically. And I get that old feeling. I miss my motorcycle. The drive to ride kind of ambushed me in the fall of 1986, in the form of a three-cylinder Kawasaki owned by a distant cousin who would soon become a close friend. Being of the two-stroke variety (the bike, not the cousin), it rattled and smoked and had various things wrong with it that would come and go (which, with the exception of the smoking, sounds a bit like me these days). One ride and I was hooked, buying it off him for the princely sum of $150.00. I brought it home and stored it in my mom’s basement for the winter and prayed for spring. My mom, I am sure, said a few quiet prayers of her own. As a college student, spring was a lean season, but I managed to scrape enough money together to cover the licence plate and the insurance. As for the obligatory motorcycle training course (I think that was another $150), it would have to wait. I was, technically, an outlaw biker. Which added to the cool factor. Until one hot evening that summer in downtown Cowansville, one of the rattles became a very loud bang. Followed by a succession of smaller grinding noises as I coasted to a stop. Just like my dreams of being a biker. But that fall I came into a financial windfall, known in those days as a student loan. Filled with the fiscal responsibility of youth, I went out and bought a lovely little Honda 450 from L’Ami Denis. I was on that bike every chance I got. If I had an hour between classes, I was exploring. Being from the west end of the Townships, the world around Lennoxville was undiscovered country. But not for long. That sturdy little bike racked up the miles as I drove it late into November. So late I got caught in a snowstorm bringing it back to East Farnham, ice forming on my chest and shellacking my helmet. By the time I got home I was in the early stages of hypothermia, that lovely bit where you feel warm and cozy and ready for a nap. I resolved that the next spring I would get my money together and get my motorcycle driver’s licence. But by then the price had doubled. It did so once again the following year. A year after that the price went up again. By that point I decided bin the idea of taking the course. The widow Crossfield’s boy was destined to remain an outlaw biker. It’s not like it was all smooth sailing. I got stopped once in East Farnham on my first ride of the year. The cop didn’t notice the absence of a Class 6 on my permit and gave me a $40 fine for dangerous driving. Apparently, buoyed by the arrival of spring, flapping my arms like a bird was seen as dangerous. …