A two-wheeling Pentecostal preacher

Born to be wild!

With the arms of this exhilarated exhilarated rising seventh grader securely fastened around his favorite uncle’s mid-section while traveling down Grand Island Expressway on a souped-up Kawasaki motorcycle, the lyrics to that iconic heavy metal biker anthem by Steppenwolf – which was featured in the 1969 film Easy Rider – were replaying over and over in his mind like a tape recorder stuck on rewind.

Although having been on a variety of motorbike rides at countless amusement parks during the course of my nearly twelve years on the third rock from the sun, I never actually had an opportunity to experience the “real deal” until the day Uncle Carl strapped a biker’s helmet to my head and took me on a scenic tour of his island home next to the Canadian border.

Shortly after taking a grand adventure from one end of the large tract of land – which was totally surrounded by the Niagara River on both sides – to the other, my heart was racing with excitement as the sleek chopper slowly meandered through the suburbs making its way back to a familiar duplex that was situated directly behind the interstate highway.

What an adrenaline rush!

Following a week of action-packed activities while visiting Grandma and Pappy Price on our bi-annual pilgrimage to the Empire State, the quick jaunt around town atop the modified two-wheeler with the General Mills employee was like the icing on the cake as we prepared to pack up our personal belongings and head back home the next day.

Once these undaunted thrill seekers rolled into the driveway fresh off an intoxicating trip around the makeshift speedway, Dad received a truncated lesson on the basics of motorcycle operation before he took his oldest daughter for an enjoyable excursion across the sprawling community.

Michele – who was forbidden to participate in the risky endeavor – was watching an episode of the Flintstones on the console television set in the living room.

Why were ‘youns’ gone so long?

“We both had to take a leak,” I professed while sitting down on the cement steps next to my big brother John. “After exiting the convenience store restroom, I twisted Uncle Carl’s arm until he let me buy a Snickers candy bar; so, he bought three of them – one for me, one for you and one for himself.”

“There wasn’t much arm twisting involved,” revealed the high-spirited young man prior to sitting down next to his older sibling’s offspring and divvying up the treats. “However, you sugary snack aficionados have to maintain radio silence on the matter since it’s almost dinnertime; otherwise, your grandmother will have my head on a silver platter if she finds out.”

Immediately after the tribe of daredevils and one popular would-be Disney princess scurried indoors where the temperature was much cooler, I descended the basement steps to retrieve an extra carton of Coca-Cola from a wall stacked with the carbonated beverage as three generations of the Price family squeezed around the kitchen table for spaghetti and meatballs with garlic bread.

Spaghetti Head!

As soon as I finished explaining the hilarious tale of how the silly nickname came to be, my eyes grew wide as the red-haired matriarch expressed her sincere hope that we did not spoil our appetites before dinner.

Who spilled the beans?

“I have eyes in the back of my head,” cackled the middle-aged woman as she dished out the first plate of stringy pasta noodles. “Not only did I see you boys – which includes Carl Michael Price – enjoying your snack on the back steps, but also found three Snickers candy bar wrappers in the garbage can.”

The girls and I will presumably eat the bag of Snickers candy bars hidden in the kitchen cabinet all by ourselves.

My jaw dropped to the floor!

Long after the decadent treats hidden inside the strict disciplinarian’s jello mold had been forgotten, the conversation finally found its way to the subject of the former National Guardsman’s adventurous mode of transportation stored inside the two-car garage.

What did you think of your brother’s motorcycle?

“It probably gets great gas mileage,” reasoned the blond-haired minister upon finishing up his plate of marinara covered pasta. “If I had one of those slick road runners to take care of church business, I’d most likely save a lot of money rather than driving around that gas guzzling station wagon out in the driveway.”

When the grandmother of twenty announced she was giving the Bible scholar funds to purchase a motorbike of his very own, the freckle-faced athlete sported a wide grin across his face as he raised two hands toward the ceiling.

“Put your hands down this instant,” demanded Mom before taking the wind right out of her oldest son’s sails. “Considering you ride your bicycle like Evel Knievel, there’s no way you’re ever getting one of those speedsters to drive around town.”

While that’s a very generous offer, I’m going to have to decline.

“Quit being so modest,” quipped the fiery redhead after wiping her mouth with a napkin. “Since I’ve been setting a little money aside each month, the time has come to give it to you just for this purpose; and don’t even think of saying no, because my minds already made up.”

Apparently, you’ve given this a great deal of thought.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, son,” stammered the balding stout man once he cleaned his plate. “You know as well as I do that once your mother makes up her mind, there’s no stopping her; so, you might as well just accept her generous offer and express your gratitude.”

Thank you.

Now you’re going to be known as a two-wheeling Pentecostal preacher!

The third generation of the Price clan tapped their glasses together to toast their father’s good fortune.

A couple of those fun-size Snickers candy bars did eventually find their way into my stomach after the former tractor trailer driver confiscated several later that evening when his bride of over forty years wasn’t looking, or so he thought.