Summer 1974

It was a brand new, candy apple red 1974 Kawasaki G5 100cc enduro and it was the first motorcycle I ever owned, bought and paid for from my own savings.  At the age of 14 I was convinced I had just purchased the only motorcycle I would ever want or need.  It could do anything on or off road.  With the flip of a lever the bike went from a road bike to an off-road, hill climbing monster.

To say I was proud of my motorcycle would be an understatement.  I cleaned it after every use, checked the oil every day whether I drove it or not and kept it safely parked by our back door where I could keep an eye on it.  About a month after getting my new toy, tragedy struck. 

I went out early one  Saturday morning to get the bike ready for my first real motorcycle trip.  Our family along with a bunch of friends were headed to Grand Junction to go riding out by the airport for the weekend.  As I exited the back door I was horrified to see that the bike was missing.  At first I thought my dad had already loaded it onto one of the trailers but I soon learned he had not.  I ran back into the house, “Where’s my Kawasaki?”  Like most questions of that type I was greeted by the standard response, “Where did you put it the last time you used it?  Did you put it away where it belongs?”  “Yes, and now it is missing!”

A brief scan of the neighborhood turned up nothing, unfortunately it had been stolen, right from our back yard.  I was devastated.  A call to the police resulted in more questions than answers.  They promised to keep an eye out for it which was no comfort to me what so ever. 

Amazingly enough we received a call a few hours later indicating that the police had in fact found my motorcycle.  The wheels of justice were in high gear that day.  I was asked by the police to come to the station to look at the motorcycle and verify if it was in fact mine.

A quick inspection revealed that this was my missing motorcycle.  I learned who the perpetrators of this horrible crime were.  They were well known by the local law enforcement and were actually classmates of mine.  “Larry” took it to his house along with “Doug’s” help only to be questioned by Larry’s older brother.  In no time the two were reported to the police and my bike was returned to me.  We chose not to press charges and asked that their respective parents dole out the punishment.  This was largely because I would be confronted by them the following fall when we all returned to school.   (The benefit of living in a small town.)

Over the years we all attended school together and although snide comments were made on occasion, we learned to get along although that was hardly their last brush with the law.

I sold the Kawasaki a few years later and purchased “the only motorcycle I would ever want or need.”