Since my adventures began appearing in COUNTRYSIDE, inquiring minds have wondered, "Is this guy simply hapless as a homesteader, or does his haplessosity extend to other areas?"

Well, gentle reader, wonder no more. My talent extends into almost every facet of my existence. As a matter of fact, nearly three dozen years ago, my social life was not exactly at the apogee of its orbit, so to speak. I was moaning to my friend Norwood about the lack of romance in my life, when he offered some unexpected advice. Norwood was an accomplished—nay, a champion—motocross racer, and suggested that I should join him on the motorcycle racing circuit.

Motocross involves racing a fast, light motorcycle around a dirt track. The track is embellished with muddy spots, ramps from which the riders launch themselves high into the air, and kidney-rattling "washboard" areas.

"All you've got to do is start racing dirtbikes," he enthused, "and you'll become a virtual magnet to scooter babes." Some readers may be confused by terminology in this account, so let me assure you that "scooter babes" are not to be confused with "motorcycle mamas." The latter are stereotypically large, vicious, tattooed, and have somewhat extensive criminal dossiers. The former, however, are invariably 20 years old, tall, and beautiful. They have long, straight hair, and their wardrobe consists almost exclusively of white "short shorts" and pink halter tops. They are shamelessly devoted to motocross racers. Being a magnet to scooter babes seemed A Good Thing To Be.

"How much will it cost me to buy all the stuff I've got to have?," I asked, thinking about the purchase of not only a motorcycle, but also of the necessary accoutrements—tight leather pants, knee-high boots, flashy racing jersey, snazzy helmet with my name on the back.

"About a bazillion dollars."

All the local lending institutions already knew me, so I drove over to the closest big city, and told the bank officer the story of little Joey and his immediate need of an expensive operation, so that he could run and play with the other little boys. A bazillion dollars later, I was back in my hometown, talking with Jimmy Moeller, owner of the local motorcycle dealership. Jimmy gladly helped me load up the new motorcycle, boots, helmet, etc., into Norwood's truck.

"Jimmy," said I, "I could sure use a sponsor, like all those ‘factory racers' have." Sponsorship separates the professionals from the dilettantes, I knew, and I was sure that having "MOELLERCYCLES" blazoned across my chest would greatly improve my irresistibility to the cyclettes. Jimmy, having seem me ride a motorcycle before, muttered something about the reputation of his dealership, mentioned the term "laughingstock," then agreed to let me wear the Moeller Colors, at my own expense, generously giving me a 5% discount off his normal profit margin of 500% on motorcycle apparel.

Since Norwood competed in the "expert" class, while I was an "amateur," he was able to watch me and advise. "I notice," he observed, "that most of the racers are going very fast, in a tight bunch, while you seem to be racing at a substantially slower speed, about a hundred yards behind everyone else."

"Ah, yes," I answered. "I figure anyone can get out there and just go fast, but all those speedy guys look the same, all clustered together. I decided to drop back, out of the dust, so as to better display my talents to the fans. I'd rather be a crowd-pleaser than just a face in the crowd. I only wish I had a colorful nickname, like some of those expert riders have."

Norwood quickly reassured me. "I overheard a couple of scooter babes discussing you just this afternoon. I think they called you ‘The Flying Squirrel'."

"Wow!! They must have seen me soar over the jumps with grace and agility."

"No. They said you have a face like a rodent, and you fly over the handlebars at least twice in each race."

One afternoon, we were competing at a track in the backwoods of northern Louisiana. Thirty motorcycles lined up at the starting line, side-by-side. At the signal, all 30 bikes roared 50 yards to a 178° hairpin turn, just wide enough for two riders at a time. Some stroke of luck shot me off the line faster than I'd ever gone before, and I entered the turn in a duel for first place.

If two motorcycles, traveling side-by-side, happen to bump, the front wheel of one touching the rear wheel of the other, the rider whose front wheel is touched will fall down. My front wheel touched. I fell down. Fortunately, I was thrown partially off the track, so that only my lower body, from the chest down, was run over by the 28 screaming cycles.

Racing machismo demands that the flattened rider leap back onto his machine and pursue the pack. I did so, with lessened enthusiasm, but knew that I would again have the opportunity to showcase my skills. With the other riders far to the front, I approached a rather vicious jump. Norwood had taught me to hit the ramp as fast as I dared, standing on the footpegs, keeping my weight back, and touching down on the rear wheel. According to him, it's hard to fall down—physics and gyroscopes and stuff—although we went to school together and Mer Rouge High School did not offer physics in 1968.

As I approached this particular jump, however, I decided to try a flamboyant crowd-pleasing maneuver called "crossing her up" that Norwood often demonstrated with ease. As the rider leaves terra firma, he grips the bike tightly between his knees, violently hunching his hips and legs off to the left, thus kicking the entire motorcycle sideways in the air, with only the front wheel aiming in the original direction of travel. Keep your weight back, then kick everything back to the right before touching down on the back wheel.

I launched. I kicked to the left. Over the chainsaw whine of 29 machines howling in the distance, I could hear the scooter babes. "Ooooooh." I grinned through the dust. I forgot to keep my weight back. I forgot to kick everything back to the right. I could hear the babes. "Ooooooooh!!!"

My life, and several others, flashed before my eyes, and Time Was No More. I was now pleasing the crowd far more than I had intended. I first executed the "Flying W," so called because the rider's body, as it is catapulted over the handlebars with knees and elbows bent, resembles a shrieking, tumbling upper-case "W." In conjunction with this showstopper, the motorcycle performed an "endo," named for its tendency to cartwheel end over end in pursuit of its absent rider.

As I bounced and skittered along the ground, I remembered Norwood's physics lesson: a body traveling in a straight line, etc., etc. "Where's the motorcycle?," I wondered momentarily. Traveling in that same straight line, about two seconds behind me. Some, but not all, of the parts on a flipping motorcycle are sharp and pointy. I encountered those first. Those that are not pointy are either spinning like a buzz saw, or have been raised to white-hot temperatures by the stresses of racing. As I inhaled the aroma of sizzling leather pants, I silently gave thanks that this was not an authentic "crash and burn." Then I smelled the gasoline.

In all honesty, the flames weren't that high. Motocross fans are knowledgeable and helpful. They know that liquid will not extinguish a gasoline fire, so they quickly threw and kicked a smothering blanket of dirt on the blazing bike and rider, then generously stomped out the hotter embers on the smoldering cyclist. "Get that piece of junk out of the track before somebody with good sense comes along and runs into it."

Gloomily, I wheeled the wreckage to the sidelines and leaned it against a tree. I collapsed alongside, sulking, while a couple of the saucier scooter babes snickered in the remote distance. After a few minutes, a little girl, about five years old, holding tightly to the hand of a much older woman, walked up shyly.

"Are you okay?," the older woman asked. "Kate was worried that you were hurt."

"No, ma'am. I'm all right," I mumbled, embarrassed, as I removed my helmet, drawing the un-singed parts of my hair back into a ponytail. (Hey, this was 1973, people!)

"Kate says you are her favorite racer. You make her laugh."

Kate let go of her grandmother's hand and moved over toward the bike. "That was really a neat wreck."

"You really think so? Well, I meant to do it. I did it just for you."

"Really???" Her eyes were as wide as her smile. "Are you going to do it again next week?"

"Probably."

The grandmother spoke up. "Go ahead and ask him." For the first time, I noticed the sheet of paper and pencil in Kate's hand. "She wants an autograph, but she was afraid to ask."

Once upon a time, Mick Jagger was asked to sign his first autograph, but he probably doesn't even remember it. He certainly couldn't have enjoyed it any more than I did on a hot Sunday afternoon in a dusty cow pasture in Lincoln Parish, Louisiana.

"To Kate, my favorite scooter babe. I'm number 76 in your program, but you're Number One in my heart. Lots of love. The Flying Squirrel."

I've been waiting 35 years to sign my second autograph.