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My spill story.
Last year around this time I instigated a thread of “spill stories,” inspired by a live version at last years Tahoe Rally. Mine was amusing enough that I was requested to embarrass myself again at this year's rally. Last year a number of riders submitted their tales of humiliation, and I promised to give mine: but alas, I got sidetracked and didn’t follow through. Perhaps it is time to revisit the subject, with me leading this time.
It was probably 1963 or ’64, and my junior or senior year of high school. JFK was not long dead, and the Vietnam War was escalating. A few of my renegade peers and I were into hanging out with the college crowd, and what had started out as a Friday night philosophical discussion group had deteriorated into a weekly Friday night drinking / hootenanny (remember those?) trying - to - loose - our virginity event.
One night, (well actually in the wee hours of a Saturday morning,) after an evening of learning my limits with alcohol, I was riding my bike home when I was side tracked with a pressing issue: a need to void my bladder. The bike, by the way was a 1958 Norton “Dominator:” a 600 twin punched out to a 650, set in the old “Featherbed” frame, and sporting the British straight, stubby handlebars. Until I got my XS that bike was my favorite of the dozen or so that I have owned over the years.
Anyway, back to the story. I pulled behind a building, got off and took care of the business at hand, in a manner of speaking. I got back on the bike, kicked ‘er to life, put ’er in first, leaned just a tad as I fed in the clutch, and as the bike slipped out of gear I fell right over into my still warm puddle. The stubby bar on the bike pinned my hand to the ground, and left me flopping around very much like a freshly caught fish.
Asked at Carrow’s what I thought the moral of the story was, I figured it must be: when you take a leak, walk away from your bike.
E.Liberty
Last year around this time I instigated a thread of “spill stories,” inspired by a live version at last years Tahoe Rally. Mine was amusing enough that I was requested to embarrass myself again at this year's rally. Last year a number of riders submitted their tales of humiliation, and I promised to give mine: but alas, I got sidetracked and didn’t follow through. Perhaps it is time to revisit the subject, with me leading this time.
It was probably 1963 or ’64, and my junior or senior year of high school. JFK was not long dead, and the Vietnam War was escalating. A few of my renegade peers and I were into hanging out with the college crowd, and what had started out as a Friday night philosophical discussion group had deteriorated into a weekly Friday night drinking / hootenanny (remember those?) trying - to - loose - our virginity event.
One night, (well actually in the wee hours of a Saturday morning,) after an evening of learning my limits with alcohol, I was riding my bike home when I was side tracked with a pressing issue: a need to void my bladder. The bike, by the way was a 1958 Norton “Dominator:” a 600 twin punched out to a 650, set in the old “Featherbed” frame, and sporting the British straight, stubby handlebars. Until I got my XS that bike was my favorite of the dozen or so that I have owned over the years.
Anyway, back to the story. I pulled behind a building, got off and took care of the business at hand, in a manner of speaking. I got back on the bike, kicked ‘er to life, put ’er in first, leaned just a tad as I fed in the clutch, and as the bike slipped out of gear I fell right over into my still warm puddle. The stubby bar on the bike pinned my hand to the ground, and left me flopping around very much like a freshly caught fish.
Asked at Carrow’s what I thought the moral of the story was, I figured it must be: when you take a leak, walk away from your bike.
E.Liberty
Just bought a 1980 Special that has been non oped for 9 years. My Skoot will rise from the ashes and be re named "The Phoenix!"
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