Learning Trust the Hard Way on Three Wheels

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Saul Bellow, as quoted in Writers (Crampton, 2005, p. 22), observes that many people harbor a deep and persistent feeling that their own experiences lack authenticity or grandeur—that their stories aren’t epic or meaningful. This sense of inconsequentiality, he suggests, runs deep and can be overwhelming; it is therefore because of the possibility of these feelings being true that we fight against the temptation to believe it so, and as such, we write to tell our stories, the stuff of life.

This question of whether our stories matter, whether our memories are worth telling, lingered with me for years. Yet, it is often in the ordinary details of our lives—moments that seem small or inconsequential—that we discover the most profound truths. My own story is not epic by any measure, but it is mine and honest.

With this in mind, I return to a memory from my childhood, one that shaped my understanding of trust, consequence, and growing up. Before they were outlawed in the seventies and eighties, televisions were filled with commercials advertising the thrill of wilderness adventures, especially through all-terrain vehicles (ATVs)—targeting outdoor enthusiasts and Texas deer hunters alike. Honda and other manufacturers sold millions of the infamous three-wheeler ATVs. My grandfather had one, and so did my dad. I was no older than ten or eleven when my father brought ours home. He was, understandably, very protective of it, and would only let me ride after much begging and with my mother urging him to give me a chance—always insisting I stay right next to the empty city fields near our home in Texas City.

Of course, I would push the boundaries, riding up and down the back alley behind our house, kicking up dirt and tossing rocks, revving the engine when I thought I was out of earshot. My dad was usually in the garage, tinkering with his rifles, hunting deer feeders, turning a wrench on the old army jeep he was refurbishing, or welding up a piece of angle iron or pipe for a friend or work buddy. Looking back, and admittedly foolishly, we never wore safety gear or helmets. I’m thankful I escaped harm, as those ATVs—with their single front tire and narrow turning radius—were notorious for rollovers and serious injuries, which is why they were eventually replaced by the safer four-wheeled models.

One Saturday afternoon, after completing my chores, mowing the lawn, finishing my homework, and cleaning my room, I wandered out to the garage. Dad was there, sweeping up debris and dust, tending to his “man cave.” I came in, feigning boredom, searching for something—anything—that wasn’t another chore. I wandered over to the three-wheeler, climbed on, gripped the handlebars, and hunched forward like I was ready to ride. “Dad, when was the last time we started this thing up?” I asked, hoping to pique his interest. “You think we should warm her up?”

He abandoned his garage tasks, in a better mood than usual, and replied, “Yeah, let’s take her out a bit, but you stay close.” My heart raced with excitement—a moment I’ll never forget. I pushed the beast beyond the driveway and tried to get her started. I had to stand atop the footpegs, straddling the seat, and pull the black Honda cord with all my strength to start the 4-stroke engine. This model didn’t have an electric start like my grandpa’s, the one we called Big Red.

Once I got the three-wheeler running, I’d peer over the front deer rifle rack that my father had welded onto it, and roll out smoothly. I’d carve figure-eights in the field next to our home, always within sight and earshot so Dad could keep tabs on me—especially if I was going too fast. He could tell by the engine’s pitch, and with his sharp, signature whistle—a sound I now use with my own family—he’d pierce the air to get my attention. I’d slow down, though I always tested the limits.

This day, though, is really the heart of this story. Anyone who’s ever lost trust knows what it’s like—and maybe that’s what qualifies someone to write about trust in the first place. I always knew the rules: stay in the fields, never cross city streets, keep to the alley behind our street, don’t speed, and absolutely never give another person a ride. Period.

It was the perfect Saturday afternoon for a kid: chores done, the sun shining, and me riding our ATV, my hair blowing back as I did mini-donuts in the field beside our house. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted one of my neighbors—a girl from across the street—standing at the edge of the field, watching me. She was about my age, and her curiosity got the better of her; she crossed the street to see what I was up to.

In true pre-teen fashion, I sped up when I passed her, imagining myself as a Supercross racer, zooming past with a grin, hoping to impress her. I’d glance over my shoulder, feeling especially cool and self-assured. I can’t even remember her name now; her family lived on our block for only a short while, but that’s beside the point.

After a few laps, I finally pulled up next to her, grabbing the handbrake to stop. The ATV idled in a low rumble—loud enough to talk over, but not so loud that my dad, about two houses away, could hear us. Dad’s ear was always tuned to the normal hum of the ATV circling the field, but what I didn’t realize then (and do now) is that he could sense when something changed—like when I stopped.

I said hello and asked what she was up to. “Just watching you,” she answered. Wanting to be generous (and maybe a little taken by her smile), I asked, “Want to go for a ride?” Without hesitation, she walked right up—curious and brave—and said, “Yes.”

I scooted forward to make space, and she climbed on behind me. Before I could even say, “Hold on,” she’d already wrapped her arms around my waist. We puttered around the field—one and a half easy laps, not fast, just enough to feel the wind. In that moment, I had a fleeting sense of what it must be like to feel grown up, even though I hadn’t even hit puberty yet. For a second, I felt like the real deal.

And then I heard it—the sound I dreaded: Dad’s whistle. I’d been conditioned since I was a toddler to respond instantly, like a dog to its owner. I looked over to our backyard—past the neighbor’s fence, over the wild honeysuckle vines—and there he was: sunglasses beneath his trucker hat, arms crossed, wearing a face of disappointment.

I knew I’d committed a cardinal sin. I rolled the ATV to a stop and told the girl, “Sorry, I have to go home now—that’s my dad whistling.” She hopped off, unconcerned, and said, “Thanks for the ride. I hope you’re not in trouble.” I thought, You have no idea—but deep down, it was worth it.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I rode slowly back to the garage. I hit the kill switch, let the engine sputter out, and climbed off to face my dad, who was waiting for me.

He simply asked, “What did I tell you about giving rides on that thing?”

Intimidated with my head down, “No one is supposed to ride with me,” I answered fearfully.

“So why did you do it?” he pressed with intensity.

I told him the truth: the neighbor girl had never been on one, so I gave her a ride. I think he understood, at least a little, that his boy was trying to grow up, to feel responsible, to enjoy the rush of having a pretty girl ride along. But he said, “You’ve got to be safe. If she’d gotten hurt, then what?”

Ignorantly, I disclosed, “I didn’t think about that.”

“That’s the problem,” as he shook his head from side to side, he replied. “You never think.”

My punishment was clear: no more ATV riding for a long time, until I could earn back his trust. That lesson about trust has stayed with me ever since.

Together in the struggle,

Brian

Reference:

Nancy, C. (2005). Writers. The Quantuck Lane Press. https://archive.org/details/writers0000cram