I was still in High School, 1979, in the same town where Jimi Hendrix is buried. Back then it was just a bronze marker in the ground, not the Memorial it is today. We used to go out there on Friday nights, smoke a doobie, leave the roach, maybe leave a splash of Jack Daniels. You’d never have a full blown party out there, no, the cops would cruise by randomly. We’d call it “payin’ our respects” but we were really just bored teenagers lookin’ for any ol’ excuse to go get stoned.
I rode an old 350 Honda, CB series, had that old “Café Racer” style to it. Kurt had a 750 Yamaha with extended forks to make it look like a chopper. But Gene, yeah, Gene’s bike made us all green with envy. He rode a Kawasaki KZ1000, it could go from zero to 140 in seconds flat, but he didn’t do that very often. Gene had just lost his girl and lost his job, that bike was the last thing of value he had on this Earth, except for his own short life.
We paid our respects to Jimi and headed out to a house party up north in Bellevue, where the rich girls lived. You know the type, always trying to prove they could put the “X” in “sex” better than the others. Instead of the freeway, we always rode up Coal Creek Parkway, it had lots of turns and was fun to ride. Back then, it was pretty dark, no streetlights, and hardly any houses along the way either. It was just a long dark road through the woods. Didn’t know it at the time, but that was the last chance we were ever going to get to ride together.
Gene took off ahead of us, so we really didn’t see what happened. Don’t know if that Dooley Pickup wandered over the line, or Gene, but we found Gene’s arm first, cut off at the shoulder. His body was about a hundred yards up the way, and his bike was in the ditch even further up. None of us had the thought to go chase down that pickup truck, he got away. Took forever for the ambulance to get there, didn’t have cell phones back then. Gene had lost too much blood while we just sat in shock, he was already gone by the time the paramedics finally arrived.
Kurt took it the hardest and got wrapped up with Scientology after that. Seems to me that religion preys on the emotionally venerable to gain followers, unless you happen to be born into it. A few months later, my father got a Civil Service Job with the Army, and we moved overseas to Camp Zama in Japan. Had to leave all my friends behind. These days however, with social media, I’ve reconnected with some of ‘em. I don’t know whatever finally happened to Kurt though, even though I’ve looked, haven’t seen or heard from him since 1979.
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