Tinman Tim's Essay Contest (FREE STUFF)
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  1. #1
    Senior Member tinman tim's Avatar
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    Tinman Tim's Essay Contest (FREE STUFF)

    ok gentleman, here's the skinny. I've got a set of racks I'd like to give away to the guy with the best motorcycle story. Extra points awarded if its a TW story of course!

    long enough to get all the details. Short enough to not require us readers to stop and shave. Photos if you got 'em.

    those not submitting a story, please keep comments to themselves, so as not clutter up the posts. A simple 'like' of the post will suffice.

    looking to 'give back' a little something to this forum, for all it has done for me over the past couple years (I had some time lurking). Hope it generates some good reading.

    submission closes Thanksgiving Day (Nov 28th)

    winner declared Dec 1st, 2013

    happy reading and writing gentlemen. TIM
    joeband, MCC1776, IzakGt and 6 others like this.
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  2. #2
    Junior Member paelo man's Avatar
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    I will give this a shot....I remember back in 1975 I had my first dual purpose motorcycle, it was a orange kawaski 350 big horn, it had the dual range transmission and that big orange monster could go any where, we were in creede colo, trout fishing, exploreing the ghost town of bachelor city, when on the main trail I look up and see a 3 girls riding honda trail 90's, being the macho disco dude I was I ran them down and was asking where they were from, and one of them said cool bike, I said watch this, I slipped the kaw into low range and I could pop a wheelie, they were cheering me on when the kaw went pop! and died such a embarrassing moment, the old kaw would not start, when I kicked here over I could tell something was not right, when I got home in okla I tore into the motor....you guessed it twisted the crank into! so what do you think I did.....I went and bought a new honda trail 90!

  3. #3
    Super Moderator littletommy's Avatar
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    I hope lots of folks share their stories. Personally, I really get a kick out of reading them. I did post this a while back.

    Here's mine:
    This spring I was going to go on a ride with a couple of friends. They were on their Harley's and I had decided to take the TW. We were out in the alley behind the house and they were warming up their bikes. (which takes forever on a Harley) It had rained the night before and there were large puddles of muddy water everywhere. Well,..I decided I was going to show off, so I started the TW, slowly pulled it around in front of them and headed into the middle of a large puddle. I was going to hit the throttle and dump the clutch, spraying mud and water all over the place in front of them.....he he, snicker snicker.

    Well...

    I made my way into the middle of the puddle, slowed to a stop; balancing on the pegs, GUNNED the throttle...
    The bike went...BUUUaaaaahhh and died without ANY response.
    (I hadn't warmed it up, the bike was cold and choke was off)

    Well...I went to put my foot down REAL QUICK and my pantleg got caught on the left peg. My feet never got a chance to touch the ground, and in slow motion I fell over sideways into the middle of the puddle (trying desperatly to unhook my pantleg all the way.) I was halfway covered in mud from head to toe. I looked like I had been turned sideways and dipped into chocolate like a ice cream cone.

    Coulda heard those guys laughing a mile away...

    *By the way...Thank you so much Tim for your contributions to this wonderful forum*
    Last edited by littletommy; 10-08-2013 at 05:51 PM. Reason: A thank you for Tim

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  5. #4
    Senior Member IzakGt's Avatar
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    Not a TW or a motorcycle but still a fun story so count me out. Being the youngest I was no stranger to the luxury of hand-me-downs. I secured a death kart at about 12 or so from my older brother. This Frankenstein go-kart had no roll cage making seat belts pointless, a Wal-Mart stadium seat, a rigged up brake system that rivaled that of the Flintstones and one bad ass 5hp Briggs and Stratton; needless to say it was probably all hand built in someones backyard. A small South West Texas dusty town paints the scene, in front of our house happened to be an open lot where a somewhat dry overgrown field grew that made for prime go-karting. My buddy and I were taking turns that day on a small track we eroded into the lot. It was my turn up and I unleashed all 5 horses as I darted up the path around some baby mesquite bushes past the red ant mound (over them to piss them off) into the powder dirt that explodes when you go sliding through it and up to the top of the hill to begin the decent down and back to my waiting buddy. On the way down there happened to be some plush tall grass of some sort that for some reason or another stayed rather green, and when you hit that grass at full speed yank the wheel you where in drift heaven. So down the hill I went throttle wide open I set up my approach for the grass felt a bump that I've never felt before, took a hard turn to the right when all of a sudden I feel the kart dig in hard on the left rear, hit the sweet spot of grass and came to an abrupt stop as I now feel the frame of the cart dragging savagely on the ground with no awesome drift. AT THE EXACT same time I instantly look at my best friend for an answer to why my drift failed when I see my rear tire rolling past him down the alley and him falling to the ground laughing so hard he started to cry . When I realized what had happened of course I began to laugh hysterically, it turns out that Nasa's cotter pin had worked loose, the lock nut backed out at the top of the hill and well my tire was nearly a block down the old dusty caliche alley. One for the books between the too of us! Your probably thinking your lucky you didn't flip it doing that...... That was a few days later and my older brother saw me in that act and he will never let me live that one down... I was extremely lucky without a helmet the way the crash occurred; I did not jump on that horse until some weeks later with a new found respect for roll cage-less go karts.


  6. #5
    Senior Member Xracer's Avatar
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    Several year ago I was without a bike of any kind and life for me was sad. Then I bought a 03 T.W. to teach my wife how to ride.The plan was to sell it after she got here permit. One day I rode it to work and found out it was FUN!! After meeting up with some member's of this forum in Georgia they took me on a fantastic ride through three states ending up on top of a Bald. The weather was clear with 360 degree views. I looked around....And broke into tears. I had all most forgotten just how much I loved motorcycles and being in the mountians. This little humble bike brought me back to life and I'm forever gratefull to it and the great folks on this forum. Several bikes have come and gone but the Dub is still here ready for the next adventure or just another ride to work.

  7. #6
    Senior Member rm_hm's Avatar
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    Not my story and I don't need a rack, but it's a fun read... Came from a trail 90 group I belong to.

    Epic
    journey with a CT-90. I bought the CT in the summer of 1981 -- it
    was paid for with money from the theft insurance settlement after
    some bastard stole my new-with-144-miles 1979 Honda Express II
    moped. Well, actually, that settlement paid for the CT90, a pair of
    Advent I stereo speakers, two bottles of booze and my July 1981
    phone bill. But I digress.

    When I bought the CT, some loser had figured it was a 2-stroke,
    and filled it with premix. When it smoked his neighbors out of their
    houses, he figured the rings were gone and put the bike up for sale.
    I paid (I think) $130 for it. Cleaned the premix out in his
    driveway... I drained it into a can and I think he used it for his lawn
    mower. Put clean gas and plugs in it and drove it home.

    Anyway, the next month, I took some time off and decided to go to
    Maryland to visit a friend. I was living south of Lansing, Michigan at
    the time, in a place called Holt. Just off I-96. From that spot to
    Ellicott City, Maryland, Yahoo claims it's 588 miles, but this was
    more than 20 years ago and several of the Interstates that exist
    now did not exist then, and some of the ones that DID exist, I
    couldn't use because of the limited speed of the CT. That 90 was
    the only one that had a name... it was The Horse.

    I took off in the late afternoon on a Friday in mid July, 1981. I
    wandered through southeast Michigan until I got into Ohio, and
    picked up US 20 south of Toledo, Ohio. If you've ever been there,
    you know that 20 is billiard-table flat for miles and miles around
    Norwalk, and in the summer, all the traffic is up on the Turnpike.
    On Friday night, everything closed up around dark, so I gassed up
    in Toledo and me and The Horse set off across Ohio. We stopped
    for dinner at a truckstop near the Turnpike, and when I got out, it
    was nearly dark. All full of gas and beef stew and coffee, and
    ready to go off into the world.

    That bike had fairly worn street/trail treads on it, and it was glass-
    smooth on the right pavement, and that long, straight stretch of 20
    was the right pavement. I stuck my (thinner then) ass back on the
    buddy seat, put my feet on the buddy pegs, laid my chest down on
    the driver's seat, cranked it wide open, and the 90 wound up until it
    sounded like a Norelco razor. The speedo topped out at 57 miles
    an hour, and with me in a tight tuck, it stayed there like it was
    glued, for miles and miles and miles. Bellevue. Norwalk. Get off
    20 onto Ohio route 18. Brighton. Lorain. Litchfield. Medina,
    where there used to be a good diner I got coffee at again.
    Montrose, which would figure in this story again later... Akron, and
    then down into the low hills of eastern Ohio. I ended up on US,
    and slept out overnight in a Roadside Rest that used to be there
    near East Liverpool, but isn't anymore. Because there was so
    much dew on the ground, I literally just put the bike up on the
    center stand, put my pack on the buddy seat, balanced my legs up
    on the bars and went to sleep.

    In 20 years, I've only one other time known a night on the road like
    that one night with one perfectly-tuned CT90. And that was with a
    Volvo I don't have any more... on the same stretch of road going
    the other way, in 1988.

    I woke in the morning and there were cows looking at me. I lit the
    CT up, went over into Pennsylvania, and spent the morning fighting
    up and down some of the hills on US40 in southwest Pennsylvania.
    I lost a lot of respect for the early pioneers, because although
    legend had it that US 40 followed the wagon trails into Ohio, it
    seemed like every time I saw one particularly tall hill, taller than all
    the surrounding hills... the **** road went OVER IT. Not around
    it, not near it... over the **** top. The 90 was breathing hard by
    the time I got into Washington, PA in midafternoon, having irritated
    a lot of local people on 40 behind me as I dragged up the hills in
    3rd gear.

    I let the 90 rest in Washington, and tried to figure out which of my
    maps would be most current for getting through Maryland. US
    40/48 was being slowly replaced by what is now I-68 and I-70, but
    most of it wasn't done yet. I snaked down through Pennsylvania
    into Uniontown, then into Maryland near Strawn, Maryland. The
    Honda actually adapted pretty well to the weird rollercoaster that
    was (and is) 40/48, but I didn't. See, down in the valleys in western
    Maryland, it was fine, but that weekend the weather at higher
    altitudes was foggy and wet. Go up the hills, it was raining, go
    down in the valleys, you dry out again. All in the span of two or
    three minutes, over and over for 70 miles. I eventually stopped at
    Frostburg, Maryland and swiped a trash bag at a Hardee's, cut a
    headhole in it and put it under my sweater to keep the moisture off
    me. I was puzzled why it was so cold and nasty in July. It wasn't
    until I moved here in 1994 that I understood that Garrett and
    Allegany Counties, Maryland, are another planet and their weather
    has nothing to do with reality -- it has snowed there in July.

    As I went east, I could see the enormous road cuts they were
    making for what would eventually be I-68, but I couldn't easily go
    through them (in spite of the fact I had a CT90) mostly because
    some of them weren't done and ended in fifty-foot cliffs. I went up
    the hard way, and by late the second day, ended up in Ellicott
    City, Maryland, not far from where I now work. As it turned out, the
    people I figured I'd go see were on vacation. 'In Ohio,' their
    neighbor said.

    I stayed that night in Patapsco Valley State Park, just outside
    Baltimore. It had been damp all week and I ended up scrounging
    kindling by looking underneath all the other picnic tables, took a
    little gas from the Honda's tank and soon had a nice fire, and slept
    under a table that night with the Honda reflecting the flames.

    In the morning, I started up to go down to Winchester, Virginia, to
    visit some other friends. Partway there, down Virginia route 7, I
    found the Honda misfiring and pretty quickly figured out the battery
    wasn't charging -- those of you who read this list will figure that I
    either boiled the battery dry (which wasn't the case) or blew the
    rectifier (which was). I got down to Winchester around 2 in the
    afternoon and found the only Radio Shack in town... they had no
    rectifier that would suit the Honda, but they did have a nice 6-volt
    wall adapter for a video game. I bought it, hacked the ends off the
    wire, and had a nice trickle charger to charge the Honda.

    After partying the evening away with my friends, I slept the night
    out next to the Honda in the end zone of the football field at
    Shenandoah College (now, pompously, Shenandoah 'University')
    and in the morning took off north to head back to Michigan. I found
    that as long as I didn't run the headlight, a one-hour charge on the
    CT's battery would run the ignition for about three hours, so I
    staggered northwest, going 90 or 100 miles, then stopping to
    charge, then running some more. At night, I found my range was
    severely limited, but it was well-suited to the spacing of rest areas
    on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Yes, I actually ran the Turnpike with
    a discharging CT, at night, in the summer. In the rain, yet.

    I finally ran out of juice at the wrong place, near the Allegheny
    Tunnel, which is east of Pittsburgh and at the top of a long uphill.
    Your CT uses more ignition current uphill than downhill, and hauling
    up the long grade at somewhere around the Turnpike minimum of
    40mph sapped the battery. I didn't want to lose the last chance at
    a charge, so I stopped in the median just before the tunnel, pulled
    up to the tunnel service entrance, a big garage door, which was
    open, and drove in and parked. The tunnel maintenance guys were
    inside, eating dinner, and playing cards, and barely looked up when
    I pulled the smoking yellow Honda in and stopped it in the garage.

    'Mind if I plug this in to charge it?' I asked. They must have figure
    the thing was electric-powered or something, but didn't seem much
    surprised in any other way. One of the guys pointed out an outlet.
    I plugged the thing in, and laid down on a bench and went to sleep.

    I woke up about five hours later, and while I had a nice charge, the
    battery didn't, and so I took off at dawn, not knowing how far the
    Honda might go. It turned out that I made it up to the northwest
    side of Pittsburgh, to where I got off the Turnpike and back onto the
    more comfortable and safer local roads. The Honda started to
    cack out from lack of electrons again, and I ended up playing tag
    all afternoon from one electric outlet to another, getting a fifteen-
    minute burst here, ten minutes there. By dark, I had made it to (I
    told you it would turn up again) Montrose, Ohio, just west of Akron.
    It was getting pretty dark and I knew the headlight would eat up
    the battery fast, so I stopped at a gas station and asked if I could
    plug in. They had no problem with it, but as they were closing,
    they mentioned that I might want to plug into the outside outlet at
    the end of the building.

    'The mens room is open all night, and by the way, if you wanna
    sleep, you can go in one of the cars over there.'

    Sure enough, I found a very nice roost in the front seat of a 1968
    Olds. I unloaded my stuff, went down the hill to a Bob Evans and
    got something to eat, and then went back up, checked the Honda
    and went to sleep. Nobody bothered me all night. The Honda took
    a pretty good charge by 8:00am, and, saying thanks to the
    morning guy who came in (the night guy had left him a note saying,
    'there's a biker in the Olds, leave him be') I took off back across
    Ohio. The CT was running solid again, although into a headwind,
    and by the time dark rolled around again, I was less than five miles
    from home and I pulled into the driveway in the dark, no headlight,
    and the speedo lights barely visible. Matter of fact, the brakelight
    killed the engine when I pulled up. I plugged it in for the night.

    Five days, 1,300 miles, one tough-ass Honda. And one trash bag.
    Last edited by rm_hm; 10-09-2013 at 02:22 PM.
    TW-Brian, Dubzha, MCC1776 and 2 others like this.


  8. #7
    Senior Member tinman tim's Avatar
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    Bump. There alot of miles riden out there. Theres gotta be more than this
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  9. #8
    Super Moderator littletommy's Avatar
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    I started out with riding a friends mini bike, I think it was a Rupp or a Montgomery Wards or something like that. I also had a friend who had a Honda 50 which I loved riding. I think it was the Honda that gave me that first sense of freedom and with the wind blowing in my hair (25 mph felt like I was going a 100) back then, it was a real adrenaline rush to a kid for sure. I was 12 or 13 then and after going home would dream about motorcycles. I really loved them and wanted one so bad.

    I had one incident in which my father was not pleased with me at all. I was hanging out with my friends at the schoolgrounds one weekend, just messing around, typically up to no good and one of our friends showed up with his new bike that his Dad had got him. He wasn't supposed to have it out at all without his Dad, but had snuck it out and drove by to show it off to us. We were all out on the baseball field and after begging and begging to ride it and sharing with him my vast (ha ha) experience, he reluctantly let me climb aboard it. It was a new bike, so shiny and cool looking. I think it was a Yamaha in the 80-125cc range, I don't really remember, it was a long long long time ago.

    Anyway, after driving it around the field for a minute or two, someone suggested I jump it off the pitchers mound. Great Idea! (I thought)....so.... I drove it out a bit in the field, hit the throttle and headed for the mound. I went flying off the mound probably doing all of about 20-25 mph and suddenly realized that I was headed straight for the backboard. I remember this sinking feeling knowing I was going to crash into it, so laid it down and fell off the bike. The bike continued on, crashing into the backboard and bouncing off (I can still see the whole thing in my head, even though it was almost 50 years ago). Although I tried to convince the guy that his bike was ok, it wasn't. The shifter had punched a hole in the case, oil was leaking everywhere, the handlebars were bent sideways and the mirror was sheared off. He pushed it home, oil leaking all the way with parts dangleing and hanging off the bike. I knew I was going to be in a world of s**t when Dad found out. Well sure enough, my friend and his Dad showed up at the house a couple of hours later. I hadn't said a word to my Dad hoping the whole thing would just go away...and I wouldn't get in any trouble. It took a few months of my hard earned paper route money to pay for it and my friends Dad wouldn't let him hang around with me anymore..ha ha, wonder why?

    By the time I was 14, my dream bike was a Triumph 650 Bonneville. I had a poster of one in my room and stared at it daily and dreamed of having one someday. I was still delivering the morning paper and noticed a guy who lived 3 doors down the street from us who had one in his garage. I stopped one day and asked him about it. He was in the military and was getting shipped out and wanted to sell it!!!!!!! WOW!!!!! It wasn't a 650, but was a vintage 57 hardtail 500 in cherry condition. Hey..good enough, right? I asked him how much he wanted for it, figuring I might be able to get it since I was going to get my license in another year and a half. He was selling the bike, two helmets, leather jackets and two toolboxes of tools and was asking 85 bucks for the whole works, believe it or not! I went home as fast as I could thinking about how I might obtain this deal of a lifetime bike. I guess I could live with a 500, if I had too, ha ha. I remember going home, being a real good boy and cutting the yard without being asked or pleaded with. Then, casually mentioning to Dad this bike I had found and what a good deal it was and that I should get it before it's gone,...bla bla bla...and that I would soon have my license, bla bla bla...that I could park it in the garage and not ride it till then...bla bla bla...hoping within, that good ol Dad would see my wisdom in getting it now before its too late.

    Well....
    Dad said No and that was it. No amount of begging, pleading, crying or falling on the floor kicking my feet and pitching a fit would help either. I suppose there was wisdom in his saying no, but I didn't forgive him for a long time for that one. Yeah, I know, I probably would have killed myself on it for sure.

    ** I got even with Dad later when I stole 2 Zildjian Cymbals and a Samuri Sword that he had brought back from WW2 from him and traded them for 2 hours of riding time on a friends 125.

    And....
    I still dream of riding motorcycles...
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  10. #9
    Senior Member lizrdbrth's Avatar
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    Not for contest consideration, but kind of a funny story.

    Late 1969. I scrimped and saved for nearly a year to pay the princely sum of $150 minimum wage dollars for a well-worn 1966 Honda CL77 305 Scrambler. I got my first driver's license on that bike at 15. Back then just as now a motorcycle license was normally an endorsement added to your car license. When I got my first license I did not yet own a car, so my dad figured that since I did not actually own a car I had no need for a license which also entitled me to drive a car. The DMV folks panicked, trying to figure out if such a license could even be issued. But dad was a pretty big, imposing dude and was insistent, so after they'd spent what seemed like half the day making phone calls someone in Sacramento finally set them straight on how to do it and I walked out of the DMV with the only driver's license I'd ever seen which was stamped "Class 4, ONLY". But at least it was a license.

    1972-ish. My best buddy's older brother had just purchased a shiny new Kawasaki H2. He hadn't even had a chance to ride it yet. It was parked in his folks' garage while he was away at college. And I wanted one. BAD.

    The H2 was already a thing of legend. 750cc's of frighteningly fast, hair-triggered, 3 cylindered two stroke mayhem capable of sub-12 second quarter miles right off the showroom floor and virtually nothing else at the time could beat it nor could anything else produce that incredible, unmistakable sound. I couldn't afford one, but I had to ride one at least once just to see what that would be like.

    In those days test-riding bikes was cake. As long as you had a pulse most dealers would just hand you the keys. But the notion of test riding that which you had no intention of purchasing would have constituted unpardonable dishonesty almost on the same level as theft in my young mind. Still, one day I finally worked up the nerve to walk into the Kawi dealer and ask for a test ride. Sure enough, they handed me the keys.

    Bear in mind that for the better part of two years I had been cruising around on a 305 Honda with all of 28 horsepower. Probably more like 23 because I hadn't yet mastered the art of balancing two carbs. I think a bone stock, unmolested H2 had something like 80HP, right out of the crate.

    I clicked the H2 into first, then putted off the dealer's lot going through the gears as quietly as possible, treating that bike as a little old lady might when out for a Sunday drive. My plan was to treat that bike like glass until I was well out of earshot of the dealership so they would think I was a proper, respectful young man, turn right down a dead-end road I had all picked out, then TWIST ON IT!

    What happened next was kind of a blur. I made my right turn, grinned like the cat that just ate the canary, then TWISTED ON IT!

    I have no idea what gear I was in when I twisted on it but it really didn't matter cuz they'd lift in any gear, but that bike reached for the sky, first thing, then the front tire kinda stabilized about a foot off the ground for the duration..

    My ass slid completely off the seat immediately and I was stuck in an involuntary Rollei Free pose. Somehow I still had both hands on the bars but since my ass was off the seat and my legs were sticking straight out behind me the growing rearward inertia of my body as the bike tried to climb out from under me was forcing my "go" hand to twist the throttle even further in an effort to stay on the bike. I think I also mentioned earlier that this was a dead end road.

    I'm not sure if it was the "Dead End" sign on the barricade looming in the rapidly diminishing, soon-to-be-here distance or the thought of what my old man would do to me for test driving and abusing that which was not mine to abuse if I somehow managed to survive the crash , but somehow I got my act together enough to start releasing my death grip on the throttle just a little at a time to finally get the front end down and eventually silenced the monster with the kill switch. I think. Big blur.

    Ever seen the stock rear blinkers on an early '70's superbike? Pick a bike brand. 22 pounds of pure, unyielding melted down '56 Buicks lovingly smothered in triple chrome. And the ones on the monster were now conspicuously absent. My legs had totally sheared them off.

    So there I wuz, nearly rendered incontinent from the ride, barely able to walk courtesy of the signal-ectomy and having a most urgent and pressing need to return a damaged, brand new Kawasaki H2 back to the dealer in it's formerly undamaged, brand new form.

    Then I remembered my buddy's older brother's brand new, undamaged Kawasaki H2 just sitting there in the garage, along with its pristine, undameged official Kawasaki H2 rear turn signals.

    The good news is I was able to return the bike wearing my buddy's brother's brand new turn signals and no one was the wiser.

    The bad news is that I had another problem in that I needed to replace my buddy's brother's turn signals. The good news is that is how I became the proud owner of a brand new H2. The bad news is that I grew to hate that pig within the first two weeks. Yes, it was fast, but had no other redeeming social values whatsoever. Possibly the most ill-tempered, ill-handling, gas guzzling, plug-fouling, tire chewing, maintenance-intensive, impractical bike I have ever had the lack of foresight to covet.

    I eventually found a complete sucker to take over payments on the H2, which he promptly turned into a chopper, then promptly flipped it over on himself the first time he twisted on it. No one with half a brain kicks back against a sissy bar installed on an H2 then twists on it.

    I'd sold my 305 to a buddy and used the money as a down payment on the forced purchase of the H2. He still has it to this very day. And today it's probably worth twice as much as a clean H2.

    Karma.



    Last edited by lizrdbrth; 10-12-2013 at 05:07 AM.
    I can explain it to you, but I can't understand it for you.

    Powdercoated '87 frame, extended swingarm, YZ fork legs, ATV tire, 14/55, XT350 tank, spliced quick-release seat, disc brake conversion, beeg headlight, beeger rack, Lizrdcooler, Lizrdventz and bunch of other stuff all covered in invisible ink.

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  11. #10
    Senior Member rmcglad55's Avatar
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    I've loved motorcycles since I was a little boy. My neighbor had a Harley and there were several British twins in the neighborhood during my childhood years. As a teenager, I always wanted to own a Triumph Bonneville. When I met my bride, I rode a 1972 Hodaka Ace 100. She always hated the little bike and refused to get on it. After we got married in 1974, I went through a couple of bikes. They included a 1968 BSA Starfire and a Jawa 2 stroke 250. She flat out refused to get on either one and did not want me riding at all. I finally bought a brand new 1977 Kawasaki KZ400 which reminded me of the Triumph but was much cheaper. I rode the Kawasaki everywhere, even making 300 mile trips on it in all weather. I was always asking my wife to ride on it and she always refused. One beautiful fall day, she finally gave in and told me that she would ride on the back of the bike to her mother's house. After we left her mom's, I decided to take a twisty back road home. As I rounded a curve at about 40 mph, a small dog, on a leash and being walked by a 9 or 10 year old girl ran right in front of me. Somehow, the dog missed being run over by the front tire but was run over by the back tire. The dog died on the spot, the little girl ran off crying and the girl of my dreams was screaming at me. Since there were no cellphones at the time, we waited for about an hour for the girls parents to show. They never did and I layed the dog where the family could find it. (the dog was gone the next day) Anyway, I was forced to sell the bike and did not ride again for about 29 years. My wife never got over the incident. I never got over my desire to have a motorcycle and as I got closer to retirement, I began to search around for a bike. Hodakas were no longer made but a friend had a TW200. I rode the bike around his yard and told him that if he ever wanted to sell it, I would to take it off his hands. He called me that night and told me that he was going to get a Honda 650 dual sport and would sell me the Yamaha. I bought the bike with about 1000 miles on it. To keep peace at home, I decided not to tell my wife about my purchase and kept the bike at the firehouse. One Sunday afternoon, my daughter and grandkids came by after church to visit me at work. She found out about the bike and told me that she would rat me out if I did not tell her mom about it, which I did the next morning. Anyway, I have put many miles on the bike since then and will probably have the bike in my garage when I pass on to the other side. I also finally got the Triumph that I always wanted as they have been making them again since 2001. Last summer, my old girl relented one more time and rode on the back of the Triumph for a 3 or 4 hour trip around Palatka, Florida where we ate at Angels Cafe. (the oldest cafe in Florida) This time the ride went without a hitch! Anyway, this is my story and it does include a TW200.
    Rusty

    2005 TW200

    2005 Triumph Bonneville T100

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