If that headline grabs your attention and you missed reading part one, please pick up a copy of the June 5 Times-Herald.
I wrote about a minor motorcycle accident that occurred on July 19, 1972.
The entire incident was my fault as I was driving too fast.
The accident resulted in a one-hour visit to a Lincoln hospital’s emergency room.
I promised myself that I would never allow myself to be part of any more speeding incidents.
That promise lasted about three months.
In early October, my eighth-grade football team’s after-school football practice was cancelled because the coaches had to attend a teacher’s conference.
I didn’t tell mom and dad because Ron Kubalek, one of my closest childhood friends who helped me cheat my way through the last quarter of fifth grade, talked me into going on a joy ride.
Ron and his older brother Ken, who was three years older than us, had driven their father’s red Volkswagen Beetle to school. The “Bug” comfortably held four people and boasted great gas mileage.
Ken stopped off to see a friend who lived on a farm somewhere between our school and Raymond, and Ron and I talked him into letting us take the Beetle for a cruise.
Since we were both 13, neither of us had a driver’s license.
Ron had some experience driving his dad’s farm pickup on county roads while traveling from field to field, but at a controlled speed.
I had driven an old pickup truck of the neighbors through a few fields, but never on a county road.
Since Ron was the pro, he got behind the wheel of the car, and I sat on the passenger side of the front seat — without a seatbelt. As soon as we got out of Ken’s view, Ron punched the accelerator, and the VW was cruising along at 60 to 70 miles-an-hour down the gravel roads of northern Lancaster County.
I wasn’t too uncomfortable with Ron’s driving until he began turning corners at a high rate-of-speed.
Ron made the first two or three corners unscathed, but then his luck ran out.
Ron took the next corner, a left-hand turn, at a high rate-of-speed, and the car slid on the gravel and off the road. The Bug rolled one-and-three-quarters times down an embankment into the ditch before it came to a rest on its side.
Fortunately, we were not hurt, but Ron was terribly shaken. He started crying uncontrollably, repeating over and over that his dad was going to kill him.
We started walking back toward the house Ken was at, when one of our teachers, Mr. Mick Pierce, came driving by. Pierce and another person who was with him stopped and made sure Ron and I were okay and then helped us push the Beetle upright on to its four wheels. The car’s fenders were dented, and the roof was crushed in a few inches, but none of the windows were broken (one was severely cracked). To our surprise, the Beetle started, and Ron was able to drive it out of the ditch.
We made Mr. Pierce promise not to tell our parents, and he agreed he wouldn’t if we promised him, we would not drive a car unsupervised until we got our licenses.
After settling that negotiation, we drove back to Ken — about 40 mph slower than before.
As the Bug pulled into the driveway, Ken noticed its dents and began throwing a conniption fit. He was jumping up and down and screaming profanities. Fortunately, he settled down in a matter of minutes and quickly began devising a plan that would cover our tracks.
Ken was worried his parents would come down harder on him than Ron, because he was the one who allowed Ron to drive the car.
Ken concocted a huge cover-up — that would have made a decent storyline in a Columbo TV movie.
The lie that would be told was that Ken was driving the car when a tire blew out, forcing Ken to lose control on the loose gravel and thus the car rolled.
Ken took me home and dropped me off at the edge of the driveway so my mom and dad couldn’t see the wrecked car.
Apparently, his story worked, because he and Ron were in school the next day, and Ken’s driving privileges were not revoked.
Ron told me to keep my mouth shut and forget about the incident.
Keeping quiet was easy; forgetting about it wasn’t.
Ron and I were fortunate we weren’t hurt, and I truly did begin to count my blessings.
The incident served as a harsh wake-up call. Had we rolled the car while traveling 70 mph down the gravel road instead of at the intersection, some purple-haired lady would have been playing organ music in our honor.