Before I started dealing dope in high school, I was pitifully broke. I couldn’t afford to buy a used car or even a broken-down motorcycle, so I reluctantly borrowed $400 from my grandpa and bought a brand-new shiny Puch moped. It was a little embarrassing to ride around town, especially at a time when you most wanted to impress girls. But hey, at least I wasn’t still riding a 10-speed!
My uncle Bud bought my cousin Gene a 1967 Firebird 400. It was a bonafide “chick magnet,” as we used to say. He always got a good laugh flying by me in the morning on the way to school with girls hanging out of the windows. And that really drove home the most annoying thing about riding a moped–its pathetic top speed of 30 mph. Laughter and jeers aside, it was a hazard to be the slowest-moving vehicle on the road. I decided something had to be done.
After much experimentation and modifications to the engine, carburetor, and exhaust in my garage, I got that thing up to a top speed of 70mph. I chopped off pieces of the frame and removed all unnecessary components to lighten it. Then I set it up like a cafe racer to lessen wind resistance. After upgrading the forks and rear shocks, it handled incredibly well on corners and was a blast to ride. A friend of mine christened it “Death Trap,” and the name stuck.
I stumbled over to the curb and sat down. I tried to process all of what had just happened to me. It was scary how close I came to dying in a most gruesome way. The circumstances were absolutely perfect for a bizarre freak accident.
As dangerous as the modified moped sounds, I only crashed the Death Trap twice in two years. One time, I hit loose gravel on a corner and slid across an intersection into oncoming traffic. And another time, I seized the engine, and the rear wheel locked up on me at 50mph. Both times were minor spills, and I only suffered a scrape or two. No big deal. Nothing that would slow me down.
Then came a close call when the Death Trap nearly earned its name.
I was riding home from a friend’s house in East Palo Alto at 3 a.m. Nobody was on the road. It was super foggy out, and the low luminosity of my headlight cut visibility down to 5 or 6 feet in front of me. I knew the road I was traveling like the back of my hand, so I wasn’t afraid to fly full speed through the murky haze. I’d estimate that I was going about 65 mph when I started up the overpass that crosses US 101 from the East side to Palo Alto proper.
I was cruising in the right-hand lane, and I immediately thought I should move to the center one. I ignored the impulse and continued on. I felt the right-hand lane was just as good as any. Then, there was a nudge in my gut to change lanes. I began arguing with myself, thinking, “Why change lanes?” Then an immediate response of “Change lanes!”
Nobody was on the road, so there was no reason to change lanes. “Change lanes!” the voice rang louder inside my skull. “This is stupid; I’m not changing lanes!” I replied non-verbally. The voice was now yelling, “Change lanes now! Change lanes!”
“Oh, fuck it, I’ll change lanes,” I said to myself as I finally gave in to the urge.
Just as I leaned over and switched lanes, I felt something whizz past my head, nearly brushing my ear. I turned to look back over my shoulder and saw a large flatbed tow truck stalled in the right lane. I had just missed slamming into the back of it at 60 mph without a helmet on—not that it would have helped—I would have easily been cut in half.
My body, arms, and legs got all rubbery; I started hyperventilating and had to pull to the side of the road. My head was spinning. I was in shock, shaking all over. I got really angry about the truck not having its hazard lights on. I was flipping the fuck out, I screamed at the top of my lungs, “FUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!”
It made me feel a little better.
I stumbled over to the curb and sat down. I tried to process all of what had just happened to me. It was scary how close I came to dying in a most gruesome way. The circumstances were absolutely perfect for a bizarre freak accident.
Then, I had to laugh about the timing of the argument that took place inside my head. Something inside me or outside of me insisted that I needed to change lanes long before I could see the stalled truck, even unconsciously. In fact, there’s no way I ever could have seen it. The truck was buried in dense fog, and I was traveling far too fast. I wouldn’t have seen it before I hit it. And if I had hesitated to change lanes just a second longer, it would have all been over. In order for me to avoid that collision, the argument in my head had to start way back when it did, just as I first started up that overpass.
This was an early lesson in learning to trust my gut.
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⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "What a page turner! This story is an amazing piece of investigative work—both compelling and heartbreaking." - Amazon review
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “I’d seen the author’s work in OZY but was blown away by this book. It’s SUCH a great read, written from the heart! Full of interest for those historians of the hippie generation, North Beach, corrupt cops, mobbed up pols, and San Francisco in general. Very well written and paced up to the last pages. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Buy this book now!" - Amazon review