Dirt bikes, horses and 'The Crash'

By Randy Butler
HCP columnist

The little town of Hoagland was a great place to grow up in the 1970s. We had a general store to hang out at and a Tastee Freeze that had fantastic ice cream and sandwiches. 

I didn’t realize it at the time, but the sense of community was huge. The houses were not even close together, but we looked out for each other. As a kid, I knew that any adult had the right to discipline me as they saw fit.

No doubt the biggest mistake in parenting made by Mr. and Mrs. Butler was to give their boys dirt bikes. It was an absolute kid’s dream. We could ride them anywhere. All the land as far as we could see was like it belonged to us to ride. Many of the other kids in the area had them as well, so it became like a motocross race every single day. 

We only had three rules. 1. No riding in the yard. 2. No riding on the road. 3. We had to be in the house and the bikes parked by nightfall. Great rules, but I am sure we broke them all many times. 

There was a family that lived on a farm not far from us that had a different view of enjoyment than the rest of us. There were six kids in all. They each had a horse to call their own and a very large, and very tough German shepherd dog. Not one saddle for any horse, it was bareback riding each day. The horses were ridden with the same enthusiasm as our dirt bikes. We envied this family since they had something we did not. And they felt the same.

I am not sure how we arrived at the point of trading, (or if we were even allowed) but we did just that. It was a blast for us all. The type of training we received to ride a horse was top notch. It was here you go, keep trying until you stop falling off! It did take some time, but I eventually learned. 

Back to rule No. 3. There was another family that lived behind us almost a mile drive back a lane. There were five kids in that family. I was buddies with the one my age. He had an older brother that played the guitar and he taught him. He in turn, taught me. 

One summer evening during one of our jamming sessions, time got away from me, and it was pitch black out. As kids, we all have those moments when we instantly know we just messed up big-time. I was blessed with a fantastic father whom I cared for and respected him more than words can describe. But I was also scared to death of the wrath he was capable of. I decided it would be a good idea to head back home on my dirt bike.

I didn’t think it through at the time I guess, but rule No. 3 was a very good rule. As most dirt bikes, there was not a single light on my ride. 

I was also unaware that my parents had sent my younger brother back to get me to get the well-deserved “thrashing.” The end result was no surprise, but traumatic.

Yes, we crashed into each other. After the dust settled and I picked myself off the gravel road with an arm that was ripped almost entirely open by his handlebars and a broken bone in my foot, I saw my brother standing beside his bike. He asked me to come and help him pick up his bike. He also asked for my blessing to keep this to ourselves and not tell our parents. 

Now I am all about keeping things small, but this was one we would have to fess up to.

After taking the help I gave him, he fell like a lead balloon and passed out.

I headed to the house to confess and get help. Thinking they would be pleased that a bad thing happened, but I was OK. I found out that I was wrong after telling them my brother was lying on the gravel drive and really didn’t know for sure his status.

All turned out well, and I’m still not sure why, but that was the end of my dirt bike career as a young boy. 

The dirt bikes were sold shortly thereafter!

Randy Butler is a longtime real estate professional in Highland County.