Ah, yes alcohol-per-dollar... what a brilliant plan for a couple young guys that spend nearly every nickel on motocross and getting to the races. In fact we had a way to get our Mom and Dad to help out on gas for these adventures. Our parents owned a tourist trap on the side of the highway that taught all the Cox siblings proper work ethic and the value of a dollar.
The beverage truck would come by and screw us for $10 a case for pop to sell in the store, but you could buy it at the grocery stores in thunder Bay for $5 a case.
Ever the entrepreneurs we would buy as many cases of pop we could pile around the bikes and our Dad would buy the gas- excellent deal.
Back at the Rheault cabin we commenced to party and have a good time. Around 2 or 3 in the morning Mike was passed out beside me on the couch in the sitting position with his head hung down. We were playing cards, Uker I believe, when all of a sudden Mike raised his head his eyes opened wide and he power puked across the entire living room floor. Mike's description of a purple projectile vomit is very accurate. The puke was pure wine and no big deal for clean up, but it did leave a stain on the grey painted floor. This allowed us to come back the following weekend and party again except we had to paint the floor to hide the evidence from the Rheault parents. All's well that ends well.
After Mike woke in the morning from his power puke experience we headed out on our bikes to make our way home. Mike on his 82 YZ250 and me and on my 82 CR480. Being owner of a 480 has a back story as well.
On a trip to Toronto in the spring, before the snow was gone, I found a deal on an 83 Honda CR 125. When I decided to buy it and have it shipped home I found that they came 2 to a crate so I phoned all my buddies back home in Atikokan to see if they wanted to get in on the great deal. Nobody was interested, then I found a super deal on the non-current 480 and history was made.
I had the bike shipped to Atikokan and it beat me back. When I called to pick it up from Arnone Transport, the shipping company, they told me there was nothing there for Patrick Cox. I called daily for 3 weeks until the guy on the phone let it slip that there was a bike in a crate sitting there but it was for a guy named Patrium Cott. I was fit to be tied, that idiot couldn't read the writing on the manifest and didn't want to give me the bike. I raced over there and demanded to see the bike. I had to show him my receipt with the serial number before he would let me take it. To this day I don't think I've met a dumber human.
Back to the trip home from the cabin party at Rheault's. On the trip home it was Mike that had the first really good wheelies, mine were sub-par for the most part. Then I started to get it and every time I put the wheel down I was going faster and faster until the bike was almost tapped out. Then my foot slipped off the brake pedal which made me twist the throttle to the stop and over backwards I was headed.
Now this bike was brand new and I loved it. I did not want it to get hurt so I pushed it back down sacrificing my body and went into a roll. After several rolls I decided I was going slow enough to try to put my feet out and skid to a stop. It was like a catapult threw me up into the air. I came back down, rolled a few more times stuck my feet out, and again I got the catapult ride. The third time was the charm, I skidded a bit and ran it out and went looking for my bike. My bike was off the road caught in some Alder bushes with narry a scratch.
In the immortal words of Tony Botavanja "is my bike ok"
Myself, I was road-rashed up and had a swollen knee.
I now had to add, "never ride a dirt bike hung over" to the list just below "never drink and ride a dirt bike".
I remember Mike's description of my spectacular wheelie crash. "all I could see was dust. Then out of the dust I could see you, you looked like a rag doll, then just dust again and then you rag dolling again, I thought you were dead".
I don't remember it really hurting but if we took the highway home I must have been in agony.