It was a bright fall day with a sky of cobalt blue and just enough chill in the salt air to be invigorating. At least for the young buck I was back then, having been raised with fisherman and clam diggers whose bite on winter was only slowed when the ice froze too thick to move a boat. I hammered the throttle of my new 67 BSA Lightening along winding roads near bays, inlets, and pale green marshlands dull with the approach of winter. Dual Carbs happily gulped the cool air; the little 650 stretched and responded as if she had no physical limits, only endless throttle and response. The British Small Arms product swerved and dipped as if by shear will and thought, rather than any physical movement, an extension of hard steel. The bike ran good and handled better; we were one, a single voice in the cold wind. I was on my way to the waterfront home I grew up and in which my pretty blonde “baby” sister still lived with our parents. Quigley Beach it had once been named, the haunt of celebrities’ back in the 20’s before Jones Beach was accessible. It was here at this big old ghostly house and home, my sister Peggy, barely a teenager, was to meet me for a ride.

Of Course I was riding much harder and faster then I intended to once she was sitting with me so secure and trusting at my back. There was a little two-lane bridge, which I had to cross on route, like so many which crossed salty and brackish water canals along the way, linking waterfront towns and villages through out the south shore of Long Island. Except, this up and down crossing, this potential ramp, had a bump. A perfectly located, lengthy, horizontal bump, which with enough speed (about twice the posted limit), I could launch my sweetly balanced motorcycle free of earth’s bonds and into the air for a brief few hundred feet or so depending on velocity and acceleration. Had a friend, captain and owner of a eighty foot trawler these days, little more then a boy back then, who crossed the Bump riding bitch behind another local on an old Indian. They were flying, for a moment quite literally, as the old machine cranked into the three digits just before the Bump. Well, Billy, the boy, flew all right, bounced clean off and landed in the canal with a loud splash. Lee, the diehard biker piloting the scoot, slammed on his brakes after landing and waited near the bank. Billy, wearing that suit of that all protecting invisible armor, youth and innocence, with the typical indifference to danger shared by his salty kind, climbed up the shore line soaking wet and laughing and as local biker folklore goes, got right back on the machine with Lee. In seconds the two were back in the three digits on their way to a Long Beach Biker bar (Lee’s Tavern as a matter of fact).

Seems my fate was not so fortunate though the speed at which I hit the Bump was just a bit more than half the Indian Chief's. Brake lights, my first indication of danger, a station wagon directly in my path as I sped through the air free of all contact with the roadway. I quickly saw the old hall light which protected me from darkness as a toddler, my first shiny red bicycle, boats, bays, people, girls, rides, and all that followed in my life till it turned again to tail lights. I knew I was about to die! The rear tire touched down; I tapped the brake, sand! All was lost; I could almost feel the dark muffled crunch of metal and glass on flesh and bone as I headed straight towards those beckoning brake lights with the fatal shiny metal and glass in between. My life flashing before me in a dull roar I gave it one last-ditch effort. I made a slight serve to the right as cars were approaching in the opposite direction and other lane, I squeezed between a parked car and that double parked wagon in front of the pizza joint just over the crest of the hill. I made it, almost; my left hand caught the rear of the four wheeler and sent me wobbling side ways sliding into a two-wheeled drift and the opposing lane of traffic. Somehow and in spite of my broken hand I picked the bike up straight. Straight for a big chrome grill and bumper! Instantly I leaned and pulled hard right and dumped the bike the other way avoiding further collisions. How, I don’t know, adrenalin perhaps? If I hadn’t done what I did I would never have thought I was capable of the stunts I performed that magic day. I would not even attempt such antics without full leathers and helmet to match, a lot of room, and perhaps some professional tutoring. And that’s a maybe. I had dumped the bike to the left, down, sliding along the pegs, picked it back up, purposely dumped the machine down on it’s right side, sliding, drifting along on pegs and sidewalls and then picked her back up straight. I then slowed, further and made a right on the first side street I came to. The wagon was in hot pursuit. Didn’t take much to “catch” me, stopped around the corner, letting my heart slow down along with my breathing, pain starting to stab hard as I held my swollen throbbing hand which was quickly turning from blue to black. No thoughts other then relief and amazement at what had just transpired and the pain of broken bones between my left wrist and knuckles.

This guy was the typical insensitive asshole one might expect from a “citizen” back then, in the late sixties. He was concerned about the damage my hand had done to his precious family station wagon. I was in a sort of suspended shock, my hand aching, pounding, hurting. Just wanted him, the driver who had just illegally parked half way down a hill, out of there so I could figure my next step. He accused me of fleeing the scene! The idiot. We exchanged information at his request, I don’t remember how I got my wallet out. Wished I did have my wits about me and had ran from the clown but I was hurt and not thinking. I didn’t say much or know what to verbalize as I looked at the dented metal corner caused by my flesh and bone. As he hastened away I recall his last comment as the callous jerk finally noticed my busted appendage. “Better get that looked at” leaving me there to fend for myself. The bike wasn’t hurt, clutch lever scratched and bent a little at the end, my hand taking the brunt of the blow. I didn’t have much choice other then to ride out of there, thank God the law hadn’t been involved to create even more problems. In those days a biker was pretty much wrong and I personally didn’t have a good reputation to start with in that particular town. The cops knew me from times past; whether the idiot double-parked in a blind spot was at fault or not didn‘t much matter. I most likely would have gone to jail, they could always think up a good reason.

Ever pull in a clutch lever with a broken hand? It hurts! Takes serious concentration, some loud vocalization to aid with pain management. Have to talk your hand into, slowly, painfully. Using vulgar socially unacceptable terms seems to help. Well once I got her in gear and rolling I very logically shifted without the clutch. Went straight to a girlfriend’s house, came through the door, not really thinking, showing her my throbbing fist. She took one look and screamed, the hand was getting ugly. With what I thought was the typical “class” expected of a biker the first thing I did was ask for a beer reaching into the fridge with my good hand and getting one. I then sat down on the couch acting as calm as I could, faking it well, and asked how bad the damage looked. The girl’s father immediately drove me to the hospital.

Now I’m riding around with a cast on the end of my limb, squeezing in the clutch with my thumb and forefinger when I had to. I didn’t own a car, fall turned into winter, I rode, cold and colder, sleet, ice, snow, and what ever. I remember riding out on the island to the clubhouse of a prominent motorcycle club (pretty well known in Pennsylvania). The middle of the winter, thermometer in the single digit range, cast on my hand, walked in and when they offered me a drink I asked for something stronger then the legal stuff. Actually I was really cold and knew it would warm me quicker but they liked the act. Thought it was cool that I rode out on a day that cold, cast and all too. Somewhere along the line they started calling me Animal. And that’s enough of that story, this one was just about a little bump on the top of a bridge.

Frank “pOO” Sarosy aka Animal (in another life)