What should I do? I could jump off and let the thing go. But then there was a good chance the machine would suffer great damage. I was certain I would suffer, and I didn't like the idea of looking at my own blood. Nor would I enjoy hurting here and there all over my body. Quickly I thought about what made the thing go, gasoline and spark. The gasoline was beyond my control. The spark--let's see- -can't get to the spark plug wires, but I can get to the magneto. Two clips held the back end of the magneto on. Did I dare try to steer the thing with one hand at the speed I was going, while I leaned over and tried to take the mag apart with my other hand? Why not try it? If I fall, so what? I was going to fall anyway. And I just might succeed. It was my only hope, I had to succeed. So I did it. I took the mag apart and it stopped. And that's the way this motorcycle story ended, just one city block short of down-town Hamlin. A few years later I bought myself a good used motorcycle. It was an Indian Scout and it proved to be the best little machine I could ever hope to own. It could do everything but cook. We kids had a lot of fun riding it all over Hamlin. On the paved street I had as many as six of us on it at once, one on the handle bars, two on the gas tank, me on the seat and two on behind. Sure I was in the driver's seat; it was mine wasn't it? I well remember one time I got on the little machine and went down through San Angelo and on out to McCamey. The trucking business was slow at that time and I wasn't especially needed at home. It began to rain as I rode west out of San Angelo. And as I went farther west I ran onto a lot of new road construction. The road became muddy and boggy beyond description, and the rain kept falling. Of course you know you can't ride a motorcycle on slick, muddy roads, nor in water on muddy roads. But you can walk along beside it and hold it up and guide it while the motor pulls it along. That is, you can until the water gets too deep, like where it flows across the road in cement dips. That's what I was doing until I came to one such place and I knew the water was far too deep to try to cross. It was a real river of water. I doubt that an army tank could have made it across. Anyway, cars and trucks couldn't have crossed it. Come to think of it, there were no cars nor trucks on the road. I hadn't seen one during the last two or three hours. In fact, I think there was only one person on that sloppy road between San Angelo and McCamey--and he was a crazy kid on a motorcycle. Some people might wonder why the boy didn't turn around and go back. But I knew the kid personally, and I knew he wasn't in the habit of starting something and then turning back. He never even gave it a thought that he should go back. He was headed west, and turning back wouldn't get him out west.