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Discussion Starter #1
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
 

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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!
 

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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...:D

*By the way...Thank you so much Tim for your contributions to this wonderful forum*​
 

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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 :D. 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.

:eek:ccasion14:
 

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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.
 

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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.
 

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Discussion Starter #7
Bump. There alot of miles riden out there. Theres gotta be more than this
 

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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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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.
 

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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.
 

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I have been admiring motorcycles since I was 7 years old when a new neighbor moved in with his fancy crotch rocket. I lived with my mom at the time with an older brother and younger sister. The only chance I had to get something new was if my older brother outgrew it! Money was always tight and the few new clothes I did get came from my moms sewing machine. I did end up getting a hand-me-down bicycle from my brother so at least I had my first set of wheels. I remember making motorcycle sounds when riding it around. Happiest times of my childhood riding that little huffy around the neighborhood.

Fast forward 18 years, I decided that I was finally going to fill my childhood dream of owning my own, brand new motorcycle! Finally graduated from college on my own dime and decided to reward myself. So I took my fiancee to the honda dealership and came close to buying a 250sf. As with all my decisions I decided to think on it and visit the yam/kaw/suz dealer and she pulled me over and said, "look at the tires on that!". I was sitting on a klx at the time and walked over and sat on it. I was sold! Low seat height, easy clutch and cool look. Perfect first motorcycle! It was 2011 and the bike was mismarked as a 2009 at $3700. We went to the office, called the bank, signed some papers and I went out front right as a mechanic pulled the bike into the parking lot. I put my helmet on, kissed my fiancee and she followed me home. Perfect beginning to a life-long friendship.

Since then we have ridden it all over town and had a ball. I remember my first offroad ride, it was so much fun. Nothing difficult just riding through woods and fields. I have since pushed the bike to it's limits so I purchased other bikes to do what the TW can't. I love the TW for what it is and plan to teach my future kids on it someday. I could go on forever about the adventures we have had on this bike and how it has led me to be obsessed with motorcycles, I will save that for another day. This is my origin story...
 

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It was the northern Wisconsin winter of 97, I was 14 and had what every 14 year had on their mind, girls. The Beastie Boys song comes to mind actually. At the time of this story I some how had a steady girl I was dating and her folks were leaving town and her home alone for the weekend. I had been plotting my late night escape for over a week. Mostly because of me trying to secure some transportation. Too young to have a license or car and though I'd sneak my old man's 78 Rally Sport out with my kid brother on an occasion, the roads have long been iced over and there was no way I was dumb enough to risk that car going into a snowy ditch. Nope, my initial plan involved one of three late 80's model John Deere 440 snowmobiles that my two brothers and I beat on a regular basis. All three were currently kaput, but one only needed a right ski and spark plug replacement. So, after some shop time to get the John Deere back on its feet and a couple test rides during the week to make sure it would not fall apart on me for the hundredth time, I was set. The big night finally came, parents fast asleep, girlfriend patiently waiting, and my hormones raging, so I got my snow gear, out my second story window to a soft drop into a house side snow bank. I headed for the barn. When I was all set to start pulling, it suddenly occurred to my dumbass that this 440 was going to make a racket leaving the house! How could I've over looked that. What the hell was I thinking. Dad would come running out the house with a 12ga thinking there was a thief on the farm, and bang! I just remember being so pissed that I was going to have to walk the 6 miles to girly's house. That was going to cut the night in half. Great. Just great. As I was about to leave the barn I saw dad's 87 TW leaned up against the wall. I almost screamed out an expletive when I realized that it should have been my plan all along. I could push it out of ear shot then kick it over for a slow but steady ride to girly's. Now remember those icy roads I was talking about, I've never tried this before, and boy did I pay for it. There was nothing slow and steady about this ride because i was wound up tight and running behind schedule. Countless drops, a couple bike skids into snow banks, and some shouted expletives at these cows who seemed to be laughing at me meant that my ass was too sore and worn out by the time I got to her house. So instead of my big chance for romance, we watched a movie as I iced my bum for a bit before my pre-dawn return trip home, which turned out to be a crashless one. Just more salt in the wound to think about as I limped the TW back that last mile home. My dad just so happen to be out on the tractor early this morning getting hay for the cattle when I got back. I knew I was caught and changed from my snow gear to my Carhart's for a long Saturday of work. When it came time to head in for lunch I was mentally prepared for the ass chewing coming my way, but all my old man said was, "At least you didn't take the Camaro."
 

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OK, this can't hold a candle to some of the great classic stories here, but it was in the (now) ancient times:

My old man was dead set against me getting a motorcycle of ANY description, so I had to scrounge in college to get one....started out with a Honda 90 Trail (!), then a 250 Ducati I made a sorry attempt to re-build after somebody else destroyed the Desmodromic gear, and then Junior year I begged a professor who was a buddy of my brothers to lend me $700 to buy a..... ***** 1964 BSA Royal Star 650*****.......with monkey bars no less!.....:D

So I was riding this thing back and forth to my off-campus 350 sq. ft. rental thru the twistiest suburban streets I could find, on a daily basis.

One day, I came through a nice S-turn at all of 25 mph, with those old skinny Avon tires, and this housewife was hand watering her lawn.....the overflow went into the gutter and crossed the S-turn at precisely the spot of maximum lean.

Well, not being ENTIRELY stupid, I hauled the bike up straight to go through the little patch of water, and then aggressively laid it back over and goosed it.....at the exact same time as the wet 6 inch patch of tire met the asphalt again!:eek:

I went down so fast I never had a chance. As I slid off the back on my ass, somehow I managed to end up sliding on my USMC Kabar knife and scabbard....(you know, the one with the sharpening stone in the little leather pocket on the outside), and never got even a scratch. I got up swearing like a sailor and this poor housewife grabbed her 2 year old and RAN back into the house, presumably to call the Cops.

Well, I WAS wearing filthy jeans, shit kickers, and a ratty vest with no helmet and hair down to my waist.....can't say I blame her now..........:p
 

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We lived right down the street from the town highway barn where all the big snow trucks resided. Right behind the barn was the entrance to the old rail bed where we could ride for miles. I was about 12 back in the early '60s and liked to hang out with the mechanics at the barn helping out with clean up and watching them wrench on the trucks. One of the guys had an old Mini bike he brought in and told me if I could get it running I could have it. All I ever had was a beat up 20 inch bicycle. The Mini had a 3.5 HP B&S engine on it that was toast. The guys at the barn laughed while I pulled my arms off trying to get it fired up.

Not so dumb was I! All the salt trucks had B&S engines to run the sand and salt spreader wheels back then and they changed them all the time. I was the dummy who walked them out to the scrap pile when they got replaced. They did not bother to even try repairing them. Tired of being laughed at brought out a bit of larceny. I went to the barn one nice evening after the guys went home and found the right motor that was in nice shape. With pliers in hand I disconnected the fuel line and stuck one of my trusty Daisey BBs in the line. A couple days later when they could not get the motor running I got to take it to the scrap pile. With the Mini bikes motor already off I pulled the switch a roo and took my toasted motor out leaving the BB clogged one in it's place. The next Saturday I showed up at the barn and began putting the motor back on the Mini bike and showed the guys I still could not get it started. Again they laughed but victory was in clear sight. I removed the carburetor and spent some time acting like I was cleaning it and of course removed the BB. You should have seen the looks on their faces when I got it all back on and the engine roared to life. They never did know of my scam but I was on the road and running down those rail road tracks on my Mini bike with the last laugh.

GaryL
 

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Discussion Starter #16
bump. So far so good gentlemen, keep 'em coming. TIM
 

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My dreams fulfilled for owning and riding a cycle just started in 1968. I was 15. We had just moved to Vegas and I needed wheels. My step-dad took me to Scootersville at 1001 S.Main St.
We were able to get a Honda 90. Smiles from ear to ear. I had a paper route to pay for it. One day after class at Valley High, I searched high and low for my little CL90, it was stolen.
I was in shock.............how could somebody steal my only wheels?
Chapter 2 my step-dad found a used Honda 175 that was cheap, no kick starter, had to push start, the shaft was stripped and it started fairly easy, Yahoo.
A few weeks later a throttle cable broke on me and it doesn't run good on one carb. So, having a paper route and no money for shop repairs I opt to repair it myself.
I have the seat and tank off and replace the cable, (piece of cake) I return to the street, (trailer park) to start the bike and see how it runs.
Several times I try to bump start and nothing, what the heck, I go thru the whole process in my head, cable install, tank in place, seat, etc...
What the heck is it, I now have turned and headed back toward our mobile home (sounds better than trailer) I'm exhausted from pushing and bump starting it side saddle.
Well, then it dawns on me, the key is under the tank, I reach down and it's OFF, well, crap. Now I'm ticked, I do one last run, bump and pop the clutch in second gear.
The bike ROARS to life, I'm sidesaddle just barely on the thing as it races up the street wide open. I fall off the thing, it stays upright, hits the ladies trailer next to ours, rips about 15 feet of siding off her trailer
goes right past her car, slams into our storage shed at still full throttle, my step-dad comes outside and is able to kill the engine by stuffing his foot into the tire/fender area
until the engine chokes to death. Well, he asks if I'm ok, and says I have a lot of fixings to do soon. The paper route money was hard to collect and if you had one back then
my manager gets his money first, then you get whats leftover. The neighbor lady was nice and even helped in fixing the siding again.
My step-dad said let's look and see why you had this problem. He looked over my work, upon removing the carb slides, one was way up near the top, the other way down.
The twin cable had two separate adjustment, one for each carb, I didn't notice that one was in all the way in, the other out all the way.
Small details can just sometimes make a big difference in what you do.
I learned a lot from my step-dad, he was a backhoe operator and helped dig the first water line to Vegas from Lake Mead. He was very patient teaching me how to work on bikes.
How to do things in a systemic order to find out why things work or don't.
My work for almost 40 years now involves some of those early lessons, I work for a block company and troubleshoot equipment.
I never really liked that 175 and got a Honda 350 Scrambler soon after.
The next big event with that 175, we decided to do an Easter camping trip to Delamar ghost town.
US 93 was our route up, we stopped after a few frozen miles of riding to make a small roadside fire to warm up by.
I was riding my 350, a friend rode my 175, another friend rode a 350 and my brother rode double with me.
Well, after warming up it's time to head north, my friend riding my 175 can't find the key, we search all over, look in his jacket for the key hiding, nothing.
Now why would you remove the key from a bike that is parked 15 feet from where we are warming up.
That's not stopping us, we hot wire it, we ride.
Well, not knowing much about hot wiring we drained the battery and it won't restart upon our trip home.
Another friend who rides Monkey Ward's two strokes only ( he was Italian ) comes up with his car and snagged the 175.
I can't remember what happened to it after that, I was glad to see it no longer.:eek:
Oh, I have more stories but will save for another time.

Like the time I endoed my TW,:(
VDR
 

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Discussion Starter #18
come on VDR, you can't leave us hanging like that
 

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Well, I love showing old ruins and mine sites to people and telling them of places I've seen.
That brings me to the TW forum.
I PMed B-dub about his ride to Grand Gulch Mine.
I now am a proud owner of one, we set a date to go.
April 13th will live in my head for many moons.
I prep my bike, I have tools, food, a new vented riding jacket.
I'm set.
We meet in St. George near the new airport bypass and the road leading into Grand Canyon Parashant.
Meet and greet and we are on our way, (B-dub, you are welcome to correct my story as needs arise)
We travel through some beautiful country, ( if you like desert that is ) and I do.
Our travels take us through Coyote Canyon and Gardner Canyon, this road goes into and out of the water path at every turn through the canyons.
At the very last crossing you climb up and just as you exit the wash onto the road there's a ditch, 3 feet across, 2 feet deep.
Nothing to it as you aren't moving fast from the climb.
From here on the road is open and nothing to dodge.
We proceed to GGM have lunch and watch a plane land in super strong crosswinds ( well we heard the engine rev as he was landing and talked to the pilot )
Had lunch looked all around the mine site and then headed for St. George.
Now B-dub has a term for his riding technique, he calls it " Moseying " ( I do hope I spelled it correctly ) Anyway, it means to soak in the surroundings, ride the terrain, and be one with the desert.
I'm in the lead as we head out and we retrace our tracks exactly as we came in.
The turn to Coyote Canyon is made and the canyon walls are talking to me, oh yeah, I hear them saying how the Indians from long ago were in these hills.
They hunted and camped near this area we are now traveling and of recent times the pioneers built homes and grazed cattle and sheep here.
All of a sudden that nice smooth dirt road I was on had a ditch in it and ( did I mention, I wasn't Moseying ) I for no other head thought reaction slammed on the brakes, slid it sideways slightly,
hit the far side of the ditch, grabbed lots of dirt with the front rim, ate dirt, felt the bike hit me and drop into the ditch facing the opposite way. ( The Stinkbug Pose )
Now back in 78 on a Yamaha 250 Enduro I high sided once and had my left shoulder operated on, I on April 12th bought a light weight padded riding jacket which I believe helped me in my fall, as I hit pretty darn hard on the left arm / shoulder area.
B-dub pulls up and tells me to stay put, relax, as he removes the bike. My arm hurts, but we are miles from the truck and no time to waste before dark.
My handlebars or forks are bent, there's 3 pounds of dirt crammed into the front rim, and B-dub tells me to Mosey more, hahaha.
We ride and make it back to SG after dark and B-dub heads for home and I head for Vegas.

I do believe we are riding together again this Saturday in the SG area, I'll be Moseying for sure.:cool:
That's my story and I'm sticking to it, ( unless B-dub changes it )
VDR:D
 

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ok ok here i go and ill keep it short and sweet.

there is only one tail i can tell which springs to mind.

Back in 2001 i had an RM250, A real fast capable bike which i used for random rides out, this was not a road bike and far from quiet.

The weather was hot by UK standards around 28c so i pulled the bike out one evening and thought id go for a blast for about an hour in the countryside, I didnt have many regular routes on this bike i road apart from one which i was currently heading for, This was a very fast wooded section with fast natural berms flowing out towards a valley which dropped through a stream and then out the other side where i would turn around and then do the trial again backwards.

I had done this ride maybe 50 times before and no one id ever seen there as it was literally 10 miles from the nearest road and the terrain would not have been to easy to walk on due to the steep inclines and declines.

So this particular day i had done the trial with nothing out of the ordinary and turned around to do the trial again, About 4 miles in to the return journey just coming back out of the woods in to a fast open section i began winding the throttle open for a fast straight that i was getting up in to 5th gear on to then drop to second for a blind left hand bend....... so hard on to the brakes down in to fourth, down in to third, down in to second, left bend negotiated and then wide open throttle with a lift from the front as i hit the powerband..... in to third and BANG! i hit an almighty bump which instantly threw me off the bike into a hedge and then straight through a rotten fence ................................

Shocked at what had happened i stumbled to my feet, hit the kill switch on the bike and then was thankful i had be wearing my helmet, I then walked over to find the object id hit to cause me to come off...................... To my absolute astonishment i found 2 naked bodies rolling around in pain! I honestly though this was some kind of joke..................

It transpires a young couple had come out of the way for some "private time" and id literally rode over them both!!!!!!!! luckily they just had bruises and were very embarrassed, I however thought this was hilarious................. until i got back to my bike to find i had a puncture and had broke my chain so had to push the bike home.......................................nearly 6 miles!

True story that and will stay with me for the rest of my days..... id love to hear their version of that event.

Cheers
 
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