The chug was a lethargic 2-1/2 horsepower go-cart intended for amusement by preadolescent males whose testosterone level was low enough to thrill at anything self-propelled with a steering wheel. It was underpowered enough to limit personal injuries to shin scrapes if the driver should overestimate its braking ability and slam show-offishly into the rear end of the trailer. Any more horsepower and it would've become a real go-cart, and subject to stricter management by parental authorities who frown on broken shins.
Designed and built by a friend of the family for his own 5-year old son, I became beneficiary when it was outgrown. By that time I was too big to fit inside though, and had to wrap my legs around the outsides of the stiff wooden frame. It was faster, and greatly more glamorous than being towed on a skateboard by a self-propelled lawn mower, which I did first. The chug was strictly off-limits around home (sidewalks, alleys, lawn, etc.). It had to be hauled in a utility trailer to an empty parking lot on Sundays. Never enough time. Dad would quickly bore and want to leave after an hour when I was just getting started. Except for the winter day he left me alone for an afternoon at Twin Lakes Park. The lake ice was tiresome and slushy so I zipped around the paved entrance roads and slalomed between parked cars. Then a police cruiser showed up and wanted to know "what the hell I thought I was doing." He told me to knock it off and get back on the lake.
Chug became a boy's tinker. Endless experimenting for a perfect pulley. Night trips by bicycle to the Sears store several miles away to shop for what might be new in the pulley department. And a double-check of the sporting goods department to, for the umpteenth time to make sure the moped on it's kickstand was still for sale.
If the pulley was too small, getting moving was easy, like first gear on a car, but top speed was dismal; an old lady with a walker. If the pulley was too large, starting was nearly impossible and the V-belt would scorch. But once moving, top speed was sensational! I fiddled with carburetor settings, lubricated copiously, yearned for bigger tires with air inside, imagined snazzy paint jobs, and endlessly yearned for a bigger motor.
In 1963 a ten-day stay was planned at The Woods. Dad obliged my pleas to bring the chug; it filled most of the trailer space. From the moment it was unloaded I was off and roaring; up and down the road, in and out of the clearing, backfires belching  from the overheated engine. Without ignition, all I had to do to stop it was put my feet down and let out the clutch. Then swagger heroically into the cabin.
A few days into the long vacation I announced plans to travel to the Store. Alone and self sufficient.
Parental approval was granted hastily to get the noise the hell away.
The 1/2 mile woods road was never graded and seldom used by anyone but us. It was rutted and rocky and overgrown with weeds, and had a long steep up-hill before emptying onto the county road. Easy downhill ride at first. Bounce across the culvert and begin the long climb upward. Motor died. Get out, unfurl the starter rope, wind it quickly, jerk the motor back to a snort, get on and ease the clutch. Kill the motor. Get off, rewind the starter rope (the incline requires me to hold the machine with a shin to prevent it from rolling backward), pull the engine back to life, set the throttle wide, feather the clutch while running alongside, gain speed, jump on ... motor stops.
Curse.
Play through the routine again. This time I run behind, pushing the bastard up the hill. Crest, leap aboard, zoom down the final slope and veer onto the gravel county road.
Thirty five years ago the road was maintained about as well as it is now. And a stiff wooden chassis without suspension and 8-inch hard rubber wheels in front presents a hard ride on a rocky road. Did I care?
Hah! I was riding low and fast. Wind and bugs spotting my face and teeth ... I was master of me. Heading for a night on the town, independent and cool, to meet and impress, maybe, some girls.
Little traffic on the road, passed only once by a man and a dog in a pickup truck. Much staring from the cab and barking from the back.
Arrived at the store half-an-hour after departing the cabin, face gritty with dust and sweat. Triumphant and proud, I motored up to the gas pump, climbed out and circled my transport in an artifice of mechanical inspection while waiting for the gas jockey to hustle to my needs. It was Bernice who owned the store, cooked the meals, served the beer, dipped the cones, stocked the shelves, rang the register, sold the ice, and pumped the gas. It was Bernice who, when serving breakfast to a trio of strangers and one protested that he hadn't ordered number one on the menu, asked, "You want it or not?"
"I ordered number two."
Bernice picked up the plate, dumped the food into the garbage, "it's all number one, and that's all for you."
I finally went inside and requested gasoline.
"Fill 'er up" I ordered as she, in white sneakers, limped to the pump.
Six cents."
I wished I had a dollar bill so she could see I was an important guy. I handed her a nickel and a penny, went inside for a Coke and ice cream. Several men with beers were staring out the window and snickering. Quips like "speed" and "crash" seeped out and hung in the air, and blunted the sharp edge of my chutzpah. Slurred questions as to where I was from and where I though I was going poorly concealed their mirth. I finished my treats and got out of there. Growing darkness and billions of mosquitoes searching for food.
Having forgotten a flashlight, and with the temperature dropping, I had an easy choice. At full throttle, about 5 mph, I could outrun a few infirm mosquitoes, but I'd pay the trade by being bounced and jolted hard. Or I could slow down to ease the buffeting and be eaten. I choose the former.
The ride back was not nearly as fun as the ride out. Arriving at the woods road, trailing a humming horde of bugs, I had to get off to push up the first hill, crowned it, jumped on, hit the gas and hurled down toward the culvert, motor barking backfires with over-revved fuel. Jounce across the swamp, hoping for adequate momentum to get partially up the other side. No. Leap out and trot sweating up the endless hill. Jump back on just before the driveway and careen into the clearing, weary, disgusted, and educated. ~C.M.

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