OT: Bike Stories

For anyone who hasn't been following this, this thread is a continuation
of a series of posts that developed in the thread "Where are the SuSE 9.2
Professional CD ISOs?" If you are both a Linux geek, and a biker, you
might want to check them out, and feel free to add to this thread.

The stories are being picked up by Vahis, and are being posted here.

http://waxborg.servepics.com/English/Stories/index.html

Kevin Nathan offered this story, in response to one of mine, and I'm
repeating it here, for continuity, as a starting point for this thread so
that we don't totally hijack MykeC's thread. My apologies to MykeC for
clobbering his thread as badly as we did, but these things happen. Sorry
about that. ;-)

Kevins story;

Ok, got a short one for ya; another 'first startup in spring'. The last
year I owned the bike (73? 74?) I had the bike in the garage, on it's
center stand (I *learned* that lesson!) and knew it would take a few
kicks to get it started.

The compression ratio on this bike was something near 12 to 1, so you
didn't so much 'kick' start it -- it was more like you stood up on the
kick start and dropped with all your weight. By the third time, I was
starting to get irritated, it usually only took one or two, and I could
just see myself slipping off the kick start and landing on the jewels!

So, I took one last try. One hand on the handlebars, the other out to
the side to help in my 'descent'. Big breath. Great anticipation. An
'all-my-weight' plunge to the bottom of the kick start arc. Didn't
quite make it. I think the bike was getting tired of this, too, and
decided to 'kick back'. I'm so *very* glad I kept the garage doors open
because I became a Flying Walenda at that point -- with no net, just a
whole lot of concrete driveway.

That was the most damage I did to my body with the bike. No broken
bones but a whole lot of broken, bleeding skin. Lucky I didn't get
'concrete poisoning'! The next day, the bike started with the first
kick. ;-)


--
Kevin Nathan (Arizona, USA)

I won't comment on this story here, as i did that after the original post.
After reading the following story, you'll see the tie-ins.

This story is not really about me, but my friend Marv (he hated Marvin).
It's really two stories in one; the "Ya gotta get a clear picture of Marv,
fixed in your head" story, and then the story proper. That said; picture
this.

I was introduced to Marv, in the basement cafeteria, of the housing dorm I
lived in, at the University of Illinois in 1963. The introducer was a
skinny, geeky, kid whose name I can't remember, but he said I'd probably
like Marv. Marv was sitting at a table, head down, reading a book, when
the introduction took place. I said "How do you do", and held out my
hand. Marv stood up, and grunted. I damn near pissed my pants.

Marv stands about 6 ft. 5 in. tall, and weighs about 275 pounds. Marv is
not fat. Marv is built rather like a very healthy, athletic gorilla, and
damn near as hairy. His facial features can best be approximated by saying
he looked like he came from good, solid, neanderthal stock, complete with
thick lips, bulbous nose, distinctive brow ridges, and a hairline that
almost met his thick, single, eyebrow. His long thick wavy black hair had
a greasy look to it, like he'd wiped his hands with it, after devouring
his last kill. Marv was NOT, I repeat Not, anything but, a pretty sight.

"Pleased to meet you," says I. Marv grunted, again. We were off to a hell
of a start. Never before in my life, had I wanted so desperately, to be
away from anything, as I wanted to be away from this menacing looking
creature, but I didn't know how to accomplish this. If he felt insulted,
by my attempting to leave, I was sure he could, and more importantly,
would, tear me apart, like an over cooked chicken. I was cold to the bone
terrified.

I wanted to kill the skinny, geeky, little ***, on the spot, but
feared to displease Marv. As totally improbable as it seemed, Marv might
actually be the little prick's friend, or pet gorilla. I wasn't taking
any chances. So I sat there, making small talk, with Marv
sitting/crouching on the other side of the table, eyes locked on me,
studying me, gently rocking side to side, looking like he's waiting for
the opportunity to pounce, and making an occasional grunt, while I'm
looking for any out. I knew I was prey, and I was trapped.

The little geek, whom I now passionately hate, is prattling away. I can't
understand, nor do I care, what he is saying; my total focus is on Marv,
as I'm poised for flight, at the first sign of my imminent death.
Somewhere, in the incessant prattle, I discern the phrase "both own
motorcycles" and Marv says, "Would you like to see mine? It's right
outside." I'm stunned... Marv speaks.

Suddenly, this speaking version of Marv seems infinitely less threatening
than the grunting one. The lips seem somewhat less thick, and the brow
ridges are much less pronounced. Miraculously a space appears in the
center of the single eyebrow. It's a small space, but a real space, and
the eyebrow is now two separate and distinct entities. As I watch in dumb
amazement, Marv's hairline recedes, revealing, a tight knit series of
rows, that, accordion style, unfold and expand, and Marv grows an honest
to god forehead, with alternate red and white horizontal stripes, from the
effort of compression, heretofore imparted. Marv pops the biggest,
stupidest, dumb ass grin ever seen by man. The skinny geek falls into a
chair, stamps his feet, slaps both knees with his hands, tom tom style,
and cackles, like an idiot, with unbridled glee. Me?.. I know I've been
had... by masters. I've been set up. The bait was tossed, I bit, and was
reeled in and put in the creel. Somewhat embarrassed, but a lot relieved,
I join in the laughter. Once started, I can't stop. The more I think about
it, the funnier it gets.

Head down, on folded arms, I shake with silent laughter. There's a hand
on my shoulder, and I look up into Marv's dumb ass grin, and he asks, "Are
you OK? Are you laughing, or crying?" "Both" I say. Marv says, "Hey, then
your OK," and pats my shoulder, then gives it a gentle, but firm squeeze,
and leaves his hand resting there. I look into his now expressive,
twinkling eyes, formerly only menacing slits, under the massive, single
browed, ridge, and I know three things; I like this big, dumb, goofy
***; we are definitely destined to be friends, big time; and this big,
dumb, SOB, heaven help us, is even nuttier than I am, and talented too.
You and I can squint our eyes. Marv can squint his face.

[ authors note ]
The terms dumb and goofy are subjective terms, and I use them in the
context of my impressions at the time, which Marv, himself, deliberately
fostered, at that time. In fairness to Marv, I must point out that while
certifiably goofy, Marv was also "Deans List" in electrical engineering.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, Marv was brilliant, in the extreme.
Dumb, he was not. Marv had more skills, talents, and intellectual
capacity, than anyone else, I'd ever met, before, or since. (that's food
for other stories, at other times) For now, I can only say that Marv was
an incredibly unique individual, and he was a trip. A trip well worth
taking, I might add.


We eventually move outside, and Marv introduces me to The Bird. The Bird
is a 1959 Triumph Bonniville, lightly customized, with a custom paint job.
Candy tangerine, and silver, flowing over the normal Bonniville white,
with black hand painted pinstripes. The Bird is as pretty, as Marv is
not. "Why would you name a motorcycle The Bird" I ask, and Marv smiles,
gets a dreamy look in his eyes, and after a little pause, almost whispers,
"Because she flies." Marv is in another world. Another moment of silence
as Marv comes out of his dreamy state, then totally surprises me with "You
want to take it for a spin?" I stand there like a dummy, for a moment, and
say, "Me? Like alone? The Bird?" and Marv says "Sure". I should have
smelled a rat, right then. Nooo. I jump right into it, "That'd be great."

Marv walks to the front of The Bird, straddles the front wheel, takes the
bars in his hands, from underneath, puts one leg back, wiggles his hips a
bit, and braces himself, like he's about to power lift the bike. This
should have been my second clue. No way.

Me: "What are you doing?"

Marv: "Steadying The Bird, while you kick her over."

Me: "Is that necessary?"

Marv: "I think so."

Me: "OK"

Marv: "Kick it"

I look down at the folding kick starter, swing the foot bar out, and note
its 16 in. length. Third clue, fssssst, right over the head, didn't see it
didn't even hear the rush of wind as it flew over. Didn't even put
my glove up. Polacks sometimes ain't so bright.

Marv, smiling: "Kick it"

Me: "Why's the foot bar so long?"

Marv, still smiling: "You'll figure it out."

Clues, clues, clues. A whole flock of them. Fssst, fssst, fssst.

I take the bars, straddle the bike, lock my heel on the bar, kick, and
stand straight up. The bar don't move. Clue, fssst.

Marv, chuckling a bit: "Ya gotta kick it a little harder than that."

Me: "No ***."

I half stand on the pegs, flex my knees, bob up and down a few times,
getting a rhythm, squat almost to the saddle, leap into the air, and kick
that *** with all I've got, gaining a sore foot and leg, and while
falling almost to the handle bars, catching a clue solidly in my glove,
'cause that fucking bar still didn't move.

Me: "Motor's not stock, is it?"

Marv, barely containing himself: "Nope."

Me, standing along side the bike, sweating from the effort, rubbing my
sore leg: "Long way from stock, huh?"

Caught that one too.

Marv, bouncing up and down, almost dancing, with a grin that looks like
it's trying to split his face: "Yup."

Marv, all of the above, still: "Wanna try again?"

Me, with a sudden, astounding degree of comprehension: "With both feet?"

Marv, shaking head, and openly laughing his ass off: "Might help."

Me, suspecting I've been had, again, to this point: "I'll get you for
this, you goofy ***."

Marv, at full body, roaring laughter: "Not likely, you can't even kick a
bird over."

Two fools in a parking lot, sweating more from laughing, than effort,
trying to catch their breath, while sitting against a tree, but it's a
losing battle, as they both lose it again, each time they look at each
other.

Time passes, breath gets caught, finally;

Marv: "Really, ya want to try again?"

Me, tucking head, to knee, and giving him the serious sideways round eye:
"Yup."

Marv, grinning again: "Sure?"

Me, with conviction: "I'm not going to let The Bird beat me."

Marv, the ***'s chuckling, again: "We'll see."

Me, laughing again, and desperate: "Stop that. Ya get me going, again, I
won't have strength to stand, yet alone kick The damn Bird."

Too late.

One fool in a parking lot, bent double at the waist, arms extended towards
the ground, doing deep breathing exercises, trying to catch his breath,
letting blood rush to his head, so he can think straight. Other huge fool,
pretty much has his *** together, and is back, in position, holding The
Bird.

Marv, keeping a straight face: "Ready."

Me: "Yup. Don't ad lib. Please!! I hurt."

Marv: "OK."

Me: "I've paid my dues, what's the trick? I know there is one. What is it?"

Marv: "Grab the grips, like you're going to get on, then, one foot at a
time, climb up on the bar, it ain't gonna move, (Me: "No ***, tell me
something I don't know.") get your balance. When you're ready, jump up,
and pull your legs up, quick, and keep your feet together. When you start
to drop, slam both feet down on the bar, with your feet together, and ride
the bar down. Ahh, and don't miss, 'cause that smarts some."

Me: "Gotcha."

I grab the grips, climb up on the bar. (The bar don't move. Amazing, who'd
a thunk it.) I prepare myself. When ready, I jump up, tuck my legs, and as
I start to fall, slam both feet, and my full weight, down on the bar,
(I didn't miss, good solid plant.) and miraculously the bar rotates
downward, and I proudly ride the bar down... about halfway, at which point
The Bird burbs, backfires, and throws me over the handle bars, squarely
into Marv, who don't move neither, and I bounce of him like a ping pong
ball, and land, flat on my ass, on the other side of The Bird, about seven
feet out, and hurting. Would seem someone, who shall remain nameless,
(Marv, Marv, Marv, Marv, Marv,) neglected the part about retarding the
spark. (Remember those, folks) The Polack on the ground feels like he's
retarded enough for both himself and The Bird, by now.

Marv, who by now, has completely lost his ***, again, and seems to be
having the best day of his life, looks down on my sad, unhappy, hurting,
but hysterically laughing, ass, and says, "Gotcha, second time today."
Shakes his head, and adds," Fucking lightweight." There is a distinct warp
in Marv's sense of humor.

I am limp with laughter, and can not move. The laughter has no sound,
because I can't catch enough breath to generate a sound. I lay there
utterly helpless, and aching from the laughter, I feel like I've been run
over by a truck.

Marv reaches out, with his right hand, grasps my left wrist, and with one
fluid motion extends his arm over head, where I dangle, feet off the
ground, dish towel limp. I am not so far gone as to miss the apparent ease
with which he does this, and I am in total awe, of his physical strength.
He proceeds to rotate me back and forth, and goes through the motions of a
man, holding a whole goose by the neck, in a meat market, inspecting it
for possible purchase, and expresses his conclusion. "Man, you're too
scrawny to take home to eat, you look like fucken road kill. I guess I'll
have to take you home, see if I can save your ass, and maybe, keep you for
a pet." Me? I just dangle, preying that he won't try to save my ass, and
will mercifully put me out of my misery. I can't take much more.

Two friends, sitting in the grass gazing at The Bird.

Me: "Does it really run?"

Marv: "Like a raped ape."

Me: "What's the real trick? How do you start it?"

Marv: "Pretty much told ya."

Me: "What part did you leave out?"

Marv, with dumb, stupid ass grin, again: "Ya gotta weigh 275 pounds."

Me: "Dumb ass motherfucker."

Marv, with shrug: "I try."

Me: "There's got to be a way to make it easier to start."

Marv: "Yup, don't want to."

Me: "Why not?"

Marv, grinning: "Nobody can steal it."

Me: "What if someone, bigger than you, wanted to take it?"

Marv, still grinning: "*** man, ain't no-one bigger than me. That animal
don't exist."

Me: "Seriously, what if."

Marv: "What if, what if, what if cows flew, we'd all be dodging cow pies.
It ain't gonna happen,"

Me, persisting: "Seriously, what if someone, bigger than you, wanted to
take it?"

Marv: "If there was someone bigger than me, and he really wanted to take
The Bird, I'd not only let him, I'd ask him, 'Is there anything else I can
do for you today?'"

Me: "That's it?"

Marv, after a moment to reflect: "I'd be sure to call him 'Sir'."

Me: "You are seriously deranged."

Marv: "I try."


--
imotgm
"Lost? Lost? I've never been lost... Been a tad confused for a
month or two, but never lost."


.

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