Trevor Nourse - Motorcycle Cowboy

 

Being the oldest son of a single mother came with a lot of responsibilities. At 10 years old, I was like the little man of the house, so mom expected me to pitch in and help out, be well behaved. And I tried. But it wasn't always easy, because I was the kind of kid who did enjoy a bit of mischief. And the big deal about single mothers is they work. They work a lot. As long as I can remember, my mom worked shifts at the local factory. The thing with shift work that's a first come, first serve kind of gig. So, if you low down on the totem pole, you got to take whatever shift's available. Sometimes even if you got a little time in, somebody with more time than you come along decides they want your job, they knock you off that job and off that shift. They call that pulling rank. Mom called it bullshit. [audience laughter] 

 

But looking back on those days now, man, I'm always fascinated at how much what shift my mother worked at a given time affected the way we lived our lives. Like, when I was a real young, my mom worked a midnight shift, that was 11:00 PM to 07:00 AM. When she gets off in the morning, she couldn't go straight to sleep, she had to stay up because she had three kids. We all worked first shift, [audience laughter] so she would sleep of the evenings. And as the eldest, it was my job to keep the house calm. 

 

We lived in a rough neighborhood. So, one of my most specific instructions was always that I was not to open that door for nobody. When you're given a set of instructions by a single mother from South Kentucky, you don't deviate. I like my job as the little man at the house, because I got to be in charge and tell everybody what's what. And I like that. But what I really liked was every now and then, you might get the opportunity to tell an adult what's what. That was priceless. 

 

For example, if I hear a knock at the door, I open at a crack, I look past the chain, I see some dude standing there and asking me, is my mom home? I say, “Yes, sir. She is. But she's asleep right now.” And he'd be like, “It's cool, little man. You can open it. Tell her it's Tony.” And I'd be like, “Look here, man. You know, I got a very short list of names of people who I'm allowed to open this door for, and Tony ain't on it. [audience laughter] Now, she'll be up around 10:00 PM. You're welcome to come back then, but I prefer you call her first. Have a nice day.” [audience laughter] 

 

And another time, there was a knock on the door, and I remember I was already in a bad mood. So, I go to the door with an attitude, and I crack it a bit, and look past the chain and I see some dude standing there. But this time, that dude was my dad. Now, my dad was what they call a rambling man. He wasn't always around when I was growing up. When he did come around, it was on his own schedule. He missed a lot of ball games, missed a lot of birthdays. I used to get mad and upset. Early on, I even tried to hate him. But I never could do it. 

 

Trying to hate my dad was like trying to be mad on Christmas day, because even though he wasn't always around, when he did come around, he was always bearing gifts. It was always a new bike or a new pair of sneakers. When you're a 10-year-old kid, it's real hard to stay mad at a new bike. Be like, now if I was mad and you baked a pecan pie, [audience laughter] I ain't mad no more. [audience laughter] It wasn't just the gifts. No, it was my pops. It was my dad. He was there to invite me and only me to spend the entire summer with him at his place. 

 

So, in 1984, I was 10 years old, I went to spend the summer with my father in a strange town, in a strange house. This was a big scary thing for me, because one, I'd never spent that much time with them, and two, I never spent that much time away from home. When I got to my dad's, I knew right away it was going to be different, because where my mom was strict and had instructions. And at my dad's place, basically, there were no rules. I could get away with stuff at my dad's house that I'd never get away with at my mom's house. And not only would my dad let me get away with some stuff, but sometimes he would even participate. [audience laughter] 

 

Let me tell you something. When you're a mischievous kid, there's nothing better in this world than doing things that you're probably not supposed to be doing under adult supervision. [audience laughter] Because even though you're a dumb kid, you're still smart enough to know that if something goes wrong, it ain't my fault. [audience laughter] We did everything that summer. Man, hanging out with my dad was the best. We skipped rocks, scaled rooftops, watched R rated movies, had pizza every night. It was great. I said earlier that my dad didn't usually come around unless he was bearing gifts. And that summer was no different. He had bought me a gift, and it was a special gift. 

 

When I was a kid, for years I had obsessed over one thing and one thing only, and that one thing was motorcycles. And finally, it had happened. He bought me a dirt bike. It was a beautiful little red 50cc dirt bike, had three gears on it, one down and two up. He taught me how to the work clutch and he taught me how to ride. I ride that thing around the front yard and in the field behind the house. I loved it, man. It was so much fun. I got good at riding that little dirt bike. I wasn't nervous. I was sure. I was confident. 

 

And then, out of nowhere, one day, my dad changed the game. He asked me if I wanted to ride his bike. It was a street bike. It was a 1981 750 Honda Shadow. Had about 100 horsepower, weighed about 350 pounds. I might have weighed 50. [audience laughter] And of course, I jumped at the chance. [audience laughter] But the thing was, I was too short for my feet touch the ground. So, what we do is my dad would run along beside me, holding onto the seat to help me balance and get me going and then he let me go, and I'd be off on that grown man's motorcycle and I'd ride up and down the street, back and forth from stop sign to stop sign. I loved it, man. I would go so fast. I'd go so fast I felt like I was flying, right? 

 

I was a wild child though, man. I never could get enough. I never could go fast enough. I never could climb high enough. My dad probably didn't know what he was doing at the time, but he had awakened something inside of me, because now, I didn't want to ride the little bike anymore. I only wanted to ride the big bike. I'd bug him every day. “Dad put me on the big bike. Dad put me on the big bike.” Sometimes he would, sometimes he wouldn't. 

 

Well, I called my dad one day. He must have been preoccupied with a football game or a bottle of Early Times whiskey, and I asked him, “Put me on a big bike, dad.” And he said, “Not right now, but you can ride it. Just get it out yourself.” I didn't know my dad that well at the time, and I assume he probably didn't think I would get it out myself because it was so heavy and I was so small. But he didn't know me very well either. So, I pushed that big, heavy motorcycle out of the garage. I knew I was too small to mount the bike the regular way. So, I wheeled it right up next to the porch. And from the porch, I climbed on, and I fired it up and put it in gear, and pushed off the porch with one foot, let out on the clutch, hit the gas, and I was gone, unsupervised on this huge monster of a motorcycle. I was going back and forth up and down that street from stop sign to stop sign, and I would go so fast. It was glorious. But I never could get enough. 

 

So, after a while, that little street wasn't enough. So, I got to the stop sign once, and I took a left and I rode out into the city, this little kid on his grown man's motorcycle. Now, it didn't take me very long to realize that I hadn't thought this thing all the way through, [audience laughter] because I was too small for my feet touch the ground. So, when I saw the first red light, I knew there was no stopping. And for the first time that day, maybe the first time all summer, I knew I was in over my head and I was scared. I was scared, and I missed home and I missed my mom. I even missed the rules. I had no idea how I was going to stop this motorcycle. 

 

But being a South Kentucky kid had prepared me for this moment, because before I rode motorcycles, I rode horses, and before I wanted to be Evel Knievel, I wanted to be a rodeo cowboy. I know y' all seen that move that the rodeo boys do when they slow the horse down to a trot, jump down from the saddle, run alongside, rain him to a stop and then wave to the crowd. [audience laughter] Be a risky move on a motorcycle. [audience laughter] It almost worked. [audience laughter] I mean, I had it, man. I went for it. I pulled my move, hopped off the bike, that part went great. Great. But I had underestimated the weight of the bike while in motion. It was just too heavy this time. 

 

I felt it coming down. It was coming down fast, and it was coming down right on top of me. I had no choice, I had to jump out of the way, I had to let it go. I watched as my dad's cherry red 1981 750 Honda Shadow slid across the asphalt, throwing sparks and grinding chrome on its way to wipe out a mailbox and dig a huge rut right in the front yard where it came to rest. [sighs] I had no-- [laughs] I walked away with minor scrapes and scratches. I was fine, except for that growing feeling of dread I had in the pit of my stomach at the thought of telling my dad what had happened. 

 

See, I knew my mom's rules. I knew she'd ground me, but she wouldn't kill me. [audience laughter] I had never seen my dad angry before. This was uncharted territory. When he made it and I saw him as he was-- I watched his face, he was looking down at the motorcycle, all scraped paint, broken glass and twisted handlebars. I couldn't read his face. When he finally raised up and fixed his gaze on me, I think his exact words were, “You are not to tell your mom about this.” [audience laughter] He would never win the Father of the Year award, but I really got to know my dad that summer. 

 

Now, I wouldn't say that growing up a latchkey kid in a broken home was the perfect childhood and they weren't perfect parents, but there were more than perfect moments. I was raised by single mother from South Kentucky, so I've always been proud to call myself a mama's boy. But in the summer of 1984, for a few moments, just a few fast and furious but fleeting moments, I was my father's son. Thank you.