Campus in the weird territory known as Iowa City spans broad acreage on both sides of the Iowa River. Thousands traverse this terrain on foot, by bicycle, and skateboard each day. And then there are the scooters, and mopeds. In the late 1960s, quiet and efficient scooters were available and widely-used, manufactured by such companies as Vespa and Yamaha, among others. They were attractive machines, very stylish and utile.
By the early 1980s, following a period of disfavor, mopeds resurfaced. We’re not going to talk about the beautiful Vespas, Italian machines, popular with the enduring Mods. No, the problem was a particular model: the Honda Spree. The Spree came in many colors: red, green, yellow, blue, orange. That was nice. But that is where the appeal ended. The Spree had a ‘muffler’ that, even for its short lifespan, did little to quiet the annoying, loud, whining insect noise the machine emitted, possibly by design. Like some Japanese revenge mechanism.
Many hundreds of Sprees droned across the city and campus. More, their somewhat short lifespans complete, littered bike racks and alleys. These machines were used by individuals who were neither hardy, nor athletic enough to walk or ride an actual bicycle, or were disinclined to do so, essentially lazy. The actual cyclists, traditionalists, hated them for crowding up rackspace meant for parking bicycles, not to mention the smelly fumes and screaming noise. After all, they’re called ‘Bike Racks,’ right? Of course, the chronically lazy also believed the Sprees required zero maintenance. That is why the brakes on the offending effronteries just shrieked into the surroundings whenever the moped moved, not just when applied. Every. Where.
Every moment when one of these little monstrosities moved by, whining and mechanically-complaining, bystanders could only conclude of the user, “No brain, no pain.” Those fun-loving, more upstanding individuals nursing hangovers from some previous night’s socializing, networking, or whatever, certainly had brains to some degree. And those brains wrestled, given any environmental consciousness whatsoever, with the problem of the Honda Spree. Yeah, we hated ‘em. Hey, maybe some of the owner/operators were fine people, but they needed to be stopped, stopped, stopped.
Perhaps it was between terms, or semesters, or over the summer. Certain individuals left their bikes, and their damned Sprees, abandoned in bike racks all over town. They made convenient transportation, as many were unlocked. Yes, myself and others I may or may not have known, used them on occasion to get from point A to B. We felt it never really hurt anybody if we dropped them off at some other bike rack. They were still in circulation, not stolen. Moved. That’s all. From the 1970s standpoint of “Bikes for everybody” it was all cool. Naturally, annoying mopeds stretched the morality of this whole premise.
Abandoned (or forgotten?) bicycles and mopeds were not the only things left behind during summer break. Some, unlucky students had ‘catching up’ to do in various classes. Others were townies who, along with certain others, had no other place to go. And from among them all, there were those who detested the Honda Spree for various noise, pollution and ideological reasons. Together, after many instances of solo hatred, awareness of a grass roots movement dawned.
Take the brazen mid-week purloining of a semi-rusted yellow Spree from a bicycle rack in front of the Capital Mall. Maybe this was the first to go. It started after some effort, before Sid rode off towards the Union down the hill, the machine whining and screaming the entire way. Further along, he rode it up onto the Union Footbridge, blue fumes fouling the environment. Sid [last name withheld] jumped off the offending pile of pot metal halfway across. There, a faded circle of spray-paint remained on the span, remnants of some sort of ugly commotion earlier that summer. Sid hated those damned Sprees. So, he lifted it up and over the railing, and chucked it into the river. Smiling over a job well done, he looked down to regard the dirty brown water flowing under the bridge, elated. So liberating it was to accomplish such an anti-social, yet useful, maneuver in broad daylight, before the entire student body. This was only the beginning…
Before long, midday Spree drops had become the norm. This phenomenon had to do with pure hatred. Why slip onto the bridge at night, when you could better make a statement with the sun high in the sky? Word got around, all right. It became a Thing. Bike shops sold out of big U-locks, and even chains with padlocks. Overheard in bars, restaurants, classes, and the Union was the following phrase: “Have you dumped a Spree yet?” Concern for these awful devices lowered to somewhere near that of litter. In this writer’s opinion at the time, they essentially were litter. The more overriding concern became Doing the Deed, and satisfaction in a job well done. Another Dead Spree. Yeah, Mission accomplished.
Everyone learned of the drop zone. Talk at shows in the Bat Cave, a punk-rock concert venue in the basement of the Unitarian Church, lit fires under many enthusiastic participants. All parties agreed, any other means of transportation were preferred, and the Sprees should be eliminated from the face of the Earth. And in doing so, each disposal must be accomplished boldly and proudly, and symbolically, at the site of an infamous, staged ‘animal sacrifice.’
Although personally-responsible for depositing at least seven Sprees into the watery grave, Charlie had lost count. Probably this was due to certain quantities of liquid courage required in working up confidence to perform each Japanese Moped Drowning. He had learned from the best, as he was present at that first dunking of the rusty yellow model. The Alpha Spree. Nobody knew what the record number of kills was. This was not important. What was important was that the Earth be cleansed of any operation of the offending mopeds.
Charlie, at times, has taken moments to reflect on remorsefulness for his involvement in the quest. Surely, some people loved their Sprees. They made them happy somehow. Maybe mom and dad made the purchase to help their offspring in the pursuit of university endeavors, causing sentimental feelings. Others may have legitimately needed the Spree due to certain physical limitations. Some may have scrimped and saved, working themselves to the bone at some place like Burger Palace to achieve affordable transportation. But we all know, youngsters can be such assholes, and will get carried away by a grass-roots movement like this.
No concerns whatsoever crossed Charlie’s mind concerning Spree-Lovers, nor much else for that matter, as he casually camped under a tree outside the Student Union. It was the first day of the new school year. Dana and Martin joined him, smoking and not-so-surreptitiously drinking quarts of Old Style. They had a great view of the bike rack nearby, and surveilled it attentively from afar. More accurately, they laid in wait for an opportunity. Actual Bikers came and went, and the sheer number of them was impressive. Mopeds were there already, but they were waiting for that special One.
Before long, an individual who could only be described as an obvious sorority sister arrived after screaming down the hill from the direction of the Old Capitol. She had all but ditched her green Spree into the huge bike rack, before trotting off with her backpack toward some class or other. Dana followed after, the very antithesis of her quarry, to keep an eye on her. She would sound a loud whistle should the girl move to return to her doomed transport.
The green Spree was brand new. The key was removed. But it was not restrained by any bike-type lock. Martin had it hot-wired in less than two minutes, before stalking off toward the bridge which served as the Drop Zone. Charlie gulped the remainder of his quart, reveled in the Liquid Courage, chose his moment, approached the machine, hopped on and gunned the damned thing up and down the block several times, waving to bystanders who had no idea who he was. He then jumped the curb, and proceeded to race around the campus lawns dangerously menacing those who made the mistake of relaxing there between classes, scattering them like frightened squirrels. They certainly believed he was Mad, given his appearance, and his intent glare of seriousness. It was like the parade in Animal House. Chaos reigned for a short period of time for which Charlie took great pride and experienced immense glee. Then, it was time to move on. You get a certain sense of when this moment arrives, it becomes innate. Definitely, it is best to do so prior to the drone of sirens in the near distance. The Po-Po have inspired and trained many fine runners. He pointed the wretched Noisemaker From Hell directly at the bridge.
Martin waited at the ‘Sacrifice Circle.” Charlie rammed the moped straight into the stairs, careening and bouncing onto the bridge. Students on and around the span were drawn aback. What were these crazy, dangerous bastards up to? Slamming the screaming brakes caused a great black skidmark towards the middle of the legendary Dead Animal Zone. Charlie very casually wheeled the Spree over to the railing on the upstream side of the bridge, equally-casually noting the degree of fade in the spray paint on the pavement. He then fulfilled his promise and destiny by lifting the moped up, and heaving it over the rail. One green Spree plunged down into the murky depths with one medium splash.
You would think an antisocial act such as this might garner some kind of outrage, or at least some interest or attention. A moped thrown off a bridge mid-day should cause some sort of commotion, especially as bystanders abounded. Maybe this kind of happening was middle-of-the road for a community where, as mentioned in previous stories, Halloween seems to be every day of the year. Just Another Day. Yep, Sid made famous that particular phrase, but not until years later. Hell, this is a town where bed races were held downtown each year on the occasion of the Iowa vs. Iowa State football matchup. Nobody liked them damn Cyclones. Ames remains too far away to have any relevance in modern society. Its an extra Iowa City that nobody needs. Like a spare, in case Iowa City is destroyed by Freaks. Actually, on this day, no witnesses approached, as Martin and Charlie both struck menacing poses and demeanors to match, looking dressed for damage.
They stood, side by side, elbows on the scratched metal railing, each with a warm sense of accomplishment, of making the world one little increment, one less noisy piece of crap, better. As they gazed down at the murky, brown, polluted water passing below them, a realization crossed them both simultaneously. In unison, they blurted the same words. “Hey, look. There’s mopeds down there!” Indeed, just under the surface of the silt-filled water lurked many dozens of Honda Sprees in a rainbow of colors, albeit faint and faded by the foulness of the water and the depths.
“Hey, I didn’t know they made a powder blue!”
“Yeah, me either. Wow! Look at ‘em all…” Charlie called it as he often did, as he saw it, “It’s a Moped Dam!”
Basking in the glow of a successful outing, after marveling at the colorful pile of mopeds lost at sea, the young men departed. Sheer numbers indicated many individuals were taking part in the practice of Honda Spree Eradication. People they did not even know, and probably never would, had certainly been dumping them, all in the same spot. The urge for both of them was to tell the world of the ongoing success! Martin declared, “We’ll tell ‘em at the Bat Cave. Black Flag is playing there tonight!”
“Hell yes, Marty! This is a Movement now. It’s a breakthrough.” Charlie was deeply impressed and moved.
Later that night, at the Bat Cave, everybody roamed around with quarts of beer wrapped in paper grocery bags tucked under their arms. It was a tradition. Just like the paper bags themselves, people knew how to live back them. So help me, Whoever, another tangent may become necessary before long. The writer feels a bit blathery. Like, maybe the readers aren’t getting the full understanding, the atmosphere, the stark reality of life in the early 1980s. Just think about it; try to imagine going everywhere in a black trenchcoat, a quart of Old Style in its roomy pocket, and no cell phone in existence anywhere.
That evening, the crowd rocked out. They swigged and smoked, and quietly whispered, despite the din created by Henry Rollins’ creation, news of the Dam’s construction. It was a magical night, stoked with an especial, extra dimension of positivity. [Again, sorry to those who lost their mopeds. We are not entirely without feelings, emotionless, cruel, sadistic…] Even Black Flag’s front man was curious to see the monument. And he may very well have, for bands in those days were regular people, like you and me, not assholes like you see on the news every frickin’ day nowadays. Like, on your fucking phone.
Thus, it came to pass on the following Saturday afternoon, more than 150 enthusiasts converged on and near the Union Footbridge. No names, please. The mantra, borrowed from Harvey Keitel in Brazil, is, “We’re all in this together.” Dozens lined the railing. Girls got on guys shoulders to catch a glimpse of the carnage of colors. Practically every other minute another Spree bought the wet dust of the disgustingly-poisoned Iowa River. Many participated in the planning of the successful completion of the Moped Dam. Damn! The word, ‘Art’ came up numerous times, organically. Never mind “Performance.” Sorry, Mel Andringa…
As the crowds grew, many bottles were emptied. It was euphoric, this grassroots happening. Merriment ruled all. Eventually, the throng began to sense that Happy Hour had expired. Perhaps. Possibly, things had naturally been taken too far. Mopeds were dying of drowning at an alarming rate. Individuals may have begun to fail to Maintain. Know what I mean? ‘Out of control’ may have begun to describe the gathering. Those with the most to lose, or anything to lose for that matter, and those with the greatest culpability, made for the taverns up on the hill, mainly the Deadwood Inn. This left the wannabees to wonder at the delight blissfully, and vice-versa, and to witness the spectacle of the mess left behind. They began to clean up after their colleagues. No, strike that, they left all of it, of course. Young people. What are ya gonna do with ‘em…
Nobody who had actually hurled a Spree onto the Moped Dam remained at the scene when the by-then unruly crowd came to the attention of Campus Police. Surely, some delicate co-eds who wary of the bridge crossing with so many ‘alternative’-type personalities drinking and carrying-on up there, reported the gathering. Charlie and Martin, along with Sid, Dez, Dana and Schmud departed in the nick of time, as they were not more than 100 yards away when the Cruisers rolled out across the grass to begin to Clear Things Out. The Daily Iowan feebly, as usual, reported:
Police Beat
Campus Police, responding to reports of a large unauthorized gathering on the Union Footbridge Saturday afternoon, dispersed a hostile, drunken group of hundreds before discovering an estimated several dozen mopeds visible in the Iowa River below the bridge. Apparently, the mopeds were tossed into the river from the bridge platform. Plans to salvage the machines are pending, as an investigation continues. No arrests have been made.
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