David Ruppert

I have a very clear memory of very few things these days.  It’s incredibly frustrating.  If you asked me what I had for lunch yesterday I would spend the next 20 minutes fixating on it until I finally threw up my arms, blurted out a slew of offensive epithets and slumped my head down in disgust.

Crap, now I can’t focus.

Maybe I went home.  Noo, that doesn’t sound right, I was busy yesterday.

Boston Market . . BAM.  I remembered.  Take that abnormally early memory loss.

With that in mind [at least for a few more seconds], I do have a very clear memory of a few of what I like to call ‘true life highlights’.

This particular one centered around riding a friend of the family’s three wheeler some . . sheesh . . 25 years ago?   Some day this memory might be superseded by the birth of a son or my first lottery win, but that’s unlikely.

The fam was in snow-coated Iowa visiting my dad’s childhood friend while my brother and I were outside destroying his sons three wheeler and snowmobile.  What I remember specifically was removing my gloves to get something out of my pocket, tossing them on the ground and my menace of a brother burying them in the snow by driving over them on the three wheeler.

Pfshh.  Ass.

I remember not caring much because, after all, I was actually splitting time between hauling ass on a treacherously unsafe three wheeler . . and hauling more ass on a snowmobile that weighed 10 times what I did . . and unfortunately was worth 10 times what my life was worth.

It . . . . was . . . . AWEsome.

I picked up the gloves, undoubtedly shot my assface brother the infamous double finger and ran inside to dry them out in the microwave.

For future reference, microwaves are not meant to dry things out . . they only warm things up.  The gloves were better than before, but only for about 3 minutes.  But whatever . . I was back on that three wheeler hanging on for dear life.  I couldn’t have cared less.

Since that day I’ve wanted a three wheeler . . dangerous oversized single front tire, incredibly tip-friendly, illegal to manufacture and all.

So . . after looking through craigslist ads for the better part of my early 30’s, I came across one a couple of weeks ago.  A 1979 ATC 110.  It’s not the 200 Big Red I’d longed for since that day in the early 80’s, but it’s a start.  And . . really I’m just starting my collection, one of these days I’ll have the coveted Big Red.

This one is in surprisingly good shape for a 30 year old death machine.  I had to order a new gas cap, front tube and some handle grips . . but now she’s ready to roll.

But, let it be known that ridiculously large tires are NOT a suitable replacement for a suspension.  Mmmmmyeaaahhh.

She shall live at the cabin.  All will fear her.  And I shall call her the ‘Widowmaker’.