I was enthralled, and had someone to cheer for as one of our neighbors, Ken Pressgrove, moved his way up the ranks. (The first Kawasaki dealership in Kansas, BTW.) We went to see a variety of motorcycle races: from motocross to hare scrambles and flat-track ovals to the AMA Grand National bikes on the mile-oval at Sedalia, Mo. My dad owned car dealerships and, for a brief time, added a motorcycle dealership to the mix. (Initially for the sno-cone I would get before the feature each Friday night, but, hey! - whatever it takes when you’re three!) I loved anything that was fast and loud, an addictive affliction that continues today. I haven’t spoken in depth about it with many people (until now I suppose), but don’t go out of my way to hide what became known as “my stubs.”Īfter attending my first super-modified dirt track race, I was hooked. While I absolutely do not equate my situation with the seriousness of losing a leg or a foot in a horrid attack, it has brought back a lot of images and memories. Hearing and seeing several accounts of victims of the Boston bombing who are lucky to be alive but are now amputees with inspiring attitudes, I was compelled to share my story of losing several of my own digits.

The first two fingers on my left hand were mangled, hanging like ground beef by a thin strand of skin. My dad was able to extract my hand by removing the chain guard and left-side engine panel on the bike. It became chaos as my parents as well as aunts and uncles and cousins came scurrying up the road. (Trust me, I couldn’t replicate the freaky endo-from-hell again if I tried for 100 years.) Trapped, I could only scream bloody murder for someone to come to my rescue. At age 13, within earshot of my idyllic, lakeside Kansas home, my hand was ensnared in the sprocket of the Suzuki 185cc motocross bike.

Unpolished gem pung