I was eleven when my friend Jason and I were walking around the neighborhood and saw a pair of dirt bikes—a Suzuki DS80 and a Honda CRX80—sitting on the front porch of a house a few blocks from mine. Jason suggested that we steal them. We came up with a plan: each ask our parents for permission to spend the night at the other’s house. Once granted that, we’d spend the night in the downstairs apartment of Jason’s landlady (she was out of town for the weekend), then leave at around 1 a.m., with bolt cutters, go up on the people’s porch, cut the lock restraining the bikes, and each take a dirt bike.
Our parents consented to us spending the night at each other’s house, so we sneaked into the landlady’s apartment through the basement. Everything had worked according to plan. Sitting quietly on her couch that night, we could hear Jason’s dad walking around above us in their apartment. Jason’s dog, Cricket, kept barking, and Bob kept telling Cricket to shut up, both of us covered our mouths, holding in the laughter at how ridiculous he sounded. Then again, maybe we were laughing at how easily we were able to hide out right underneath Bob’s nose.
1 a.m. arrived. We sneaked out and headed toward the house with the dirt bikes, on foot, some five blocks away. When we reached the house, we tiptoed up to the porch. Jason pulled out the bolt cutters and cut the chain locking the bikes together. My heart beat rapidly, causing adrenaline to rush through my body, as he pulled the chain through the metal wheel spokes, clinking and rattling loudly. He had to take the Honda because it was in front of the Suzuki. I had to help him wrestle it off the porch, it was bigger than the Suzuki; I couldn’t ride it without difficulty. Once he was down the street, I was scared to be on the porch by myself, so I ran down to where he was and asked him to come hack to help me. He refused. I walked back up the street alone, listening to the rhythm of my pulse pounding inside my head, beating faster and harder as I approached the house again. I tiptoed back up to the porch, grabbed the handlebars of the Suzuki, quickly pushed it off the one-step porch and through the front yard. When I reached the sidewalk, I ran alongside, then jumped on it, coasting quietly down the street to where Jason waited.
The Honda started right up; the Suzuki started and died. Jason said, “Turn the gas on.” I fumbled around until he got off the Honda and turned the gas valve to the on position for me. I kick-started it again, this time it stayed running, permeating the cool spring air with exhaust fumes as we roared off, side by side, into the dark early-morning.
We rode the bikes around the city streets until sunrise. I loved every minute: the cool wind blowing my hair back and numbing my hands, ears, and baby face. I felt an adrenaline rush from the danger and excitement, roaring full throttle down the deserted streets. But it was time for the second part of our plan: meet up with an older kid named Cuban Louis and trade the stolen bikes for a pair of freestyle bicycles. Thus our parents wouldn’t ask us any questions because we changed bicycle parts around so often, changing tires and rims, swapping bicycle frames, that they couldn’t keep up. A motorcycle was different. Unfortunately, the completion of our plan would be foiled.
When we stopped at my house, I got off the Suzuki but left the fine-tuned machine idling on its kickstand. I ran inside the house to call Cuban Louis to let him know we were on our way. As I was going in, I passed my brother coming out. Outside, he saw the bike running, and without asking, decided to take it for a ride. Instead of just going around the block, he rode five blocks over and took a left—riding right past the house we’d stolen the bikes from, the night before. The owners were in their yard as my brother roared past them without shifting out of first gear the entire time he was on the bike.
By the time my brother reached our house, the owners were not far behind—unbeknownst to me. When he stopped, I jumped back on it and took off, speed-shifting as I roared up the street. The owners boxed us in from both ends of the street, one in a car, the other in a truck; we were caught red-handed.
The owners loaded up the dirt bikes into their truck, and put Jason and I in their car. They hauled us back to their house, where Jason and I sat uncomfortably on their living room floor, listening to them lecture about how we could have been hurt, until the police arrived. We were placed under arrest, read our rights, handcuffed, and drove downtown in the back of a paddy wagon.
Phone calls were made to our parents. When our parents arrived, they were given a summons to appear before a juvenile officer to decide what would be done. Luckily for Jason and I, the owners decided to drop the charges because of our age; we got off with a warning.
I remember the look on my father’s face after coming to get me from the police station; he seemed amused by the caper we almost got away with. He said, “Your little ass got caught, didn’t you?”
My mother wasn’t so amused, but my father held the belief boys will be boys. And how right he was: those dirt bikes were only the beginning.
