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I decided to name my new mower “Cubbie”.  After all, with a name I’ve never heard of plastered on the side emblazoned “Cub Cadet”, I figured that I would graduate the poor little guy from Cadet status to Cubbie status.

A few days later I was telling my friend about this new mower with the weird name and color and how I wanted to support the local guy so that’s why I bought the “knock-off” brand mower.

He responded something like this …

“You bought a Cubbie?!!!!  You bought a Cubbie!!!!  That there is as good as a Johnny Deer!!!”

All the while, whacking me on the back to congratulate me on my ignorant luck.

It would seem that he’s heard of Cub Cadet and had already had the creativity to name my mower the same thing that I did.  I suppose the originality of the naming rite was close to calling your kid Mikey when your name is Michael …

I then realized that I had scored points with him about the brand.  I also realized that I had lost those same points immediately by not having heard of the brand …

I like to do a victory lap before the race begins.

It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.

So I took Cubbie on a victory lap around the perimeter of the front yard to survey the scope of the project before me.  It was a pretty smooth ride as Cubbie & I got to know each other.  It handled well.  The turn-radius was impressive.  And the speed was reasonable.  I realized that Cubbie was sure to be a reliable friend.

About three laps into the Frontyard 400, it happened.

I didn’t navigate the “subtle” mound leftover from where a gumball tree once lived for fifty years.  And I ran the dual blade cutting deck into the dirt on the upside of the grassy mound.  I honestly did not know that the earth beneath any amount of grass could meet the blades.  And that morning, I found out that it could happen.  And it did happen.

I dismounted the Cubbie and got behind and pushed him over the mound.  What I found was an ginormous pile of fresh dirt clods and hacked up divots the size of paper plates.  I was moderately concerned as I sat back down on Cubbie and went to start ‘em back up.  Yet, without missing a beat, Cubbie started right back and up and the blades were back in motion.

For now.

I did a few more laps of the Frontyard 400 and and started to realize something.

The cut “lanes” of grass looked different than before.

The lanes were cut diagonal from left to right with a line.

Much like Arsenio Hall’s haircut in 1990.  A flat top that wasn’t flat ... unless you tipped your head to the side.

I didn’t have time to investigate that morning.  I realized that Cubbie must have gotten his new style from the Gumball Tree Mound Barber at the corner of Dumb Road and Stupid Street.

So I finished the Frontyard 400.  And the finished product displayed a degree of consistency in “look and feel.”  I’m certain that someone with vertigo would have found the yard to look fantastic…

And then I went on to do a victory lap around the back yard.

I was almost done with my first lap of the Backyard 500, and it happened.

While cruising wide around an oak tree, Cubbie came to such a violent and abrupt stop that the front hood went flying open and slammed back down into place.

I simultaneously came off of my seat and arrived in that awkward half-bent over position that looked like I was either waiting for someone to serve me a volleyball or I was going to start riding Cubbie like a jockey in the Thompson Downs…

I’m not sure when the six-inch round root from the oak tree grew up out of the ground ten feet from the base of the tree and surged out and back into the ground like a graceful whale in the arctic.  I’m not sure why I hadn’t seen the drive-by rooting.

What I did know was that the root was now sporting the same haircut as the rest of his flora and fauna brothers in the front yard.

Having just witnessed Cubbie’s stout and vigorous re-start not even 35 minutes earlier, I had high hopes.

Yet this was different.

This haircut had sparks …

I pushed Cubbie over on to the driveway to examine the damage.

Belts had come off.  Blades had  broken.  It was bad.

Cubbie had to go back.

I'm sure I lost more points with my friend on the Ignorant Lawn Mower's Chart ...

At least I had finished the Frontyard 400 …  even if it looked like a popular haircut from the early nineties …

I used to know how to mow the lawn.

It all started when I was ten when my folks decided it was time for me to have some more responsibility around the house.  And so my circle of responsibility expanded to the circumference of our yard.

It didn’t matter that the grass tickled my kneecaps when I walked through it that summer after our two-week vacation to the top of the “glove” (the northern part of Michigan before crossing the bridge).

I was tagged to mow the jungle.

And I learned to pace myself.  Two strips.  Rest.  Two strips.  Rest.

After all, the push-mover handle was higher than my head.  And if I pushed too hard, the back tires of the mower would lift up …

Then came our first riding lawn mower.  I was twelve.  The riding lawn mower was twenty six.  My Dad bought it for $100 from our minister.  I bet the minister giggled the whole way to home.

That mower was the size of the go-cart that I never built but always dreamed I would.  It was the kind that would pop a wheelie when you would hit the gas.  Really.  Now, I had a mower where the front wheels lifted up on their own rather than the back wheels lifting up from exertion.

For a twelve-year old, a riding mower from the sixties that did wheelies, did amazing things for my neighborhood “cool” rating.

I’m pretty sure my nine-year old neighbor behind me secretly wanted to cut my lawn.  But he was already stylin’ in his brand new monster mower his Dad got at Sears.  The kind with the huge flume along the side that sucked the grass into the amazing grass holding tank in the back.  I think it had eight speeds.

But mine could do wheelies.  And all through Junior High and High School, I faithfully cranked out the yard like Evel Knievel doing something productive.

Twenty years and several yards later it was time for me to invest in my own riding mower.

And I decided I would support the local Mom & Pop Riding Lawn Mowers Association.  Sorry Sears.  Sorry Lowes.  I wanted to go where someone would know my name.  I wanted to go to the Cheers Version of lawn care equipment providers.

After introducing myself as a recovering riding lawn mower wheelie popper, the owner told me he “had just the right mower” for me.

After taking out a second mortgage, I had found my new mower.  I thought it had a peculiar name.  I thought it had an unusual color.  But I thought a no-name mower should get the job  done as good as any.

Later that afternoon, the knock-off mower with the weird name and odd color was delivered to the house to great fan-fare in the neighborhood.  Well, I was excited anyway.

After the inaugural ceremonies, which included the Pouring of the Gas and Dripping of the Oil, I was off for the main event, the Scalping of the Yard, using a deck setting that was apparently too low.  I’m still not sure what a “PTO Setting” is…

I’m still trying to figure out how to do wheelies …

At least the dude at the store knows my name now …