Post
by steelchef » Mon Mar 14, 2011 11:31
This is one of my favourite stories.
My step-grandpa managed to bring back the motorcycle he rode during the conflict in Europe. I was about thirteen when I discovered it, hidden beneath a tarp in one of the many farm buildings. I revealed my find at supper one night and asked if I could ride it. At first there was NO! then, "well if you can start it you can ride it."
They totally misunderstood my proclivity with engines. I flushed the tank, cleaned the feed line, soaked the carburetor in fresh gasoline then put it all together and started kicking it. It took nearly 30 minutes before I got ignition and a further half hour before it was running. I fiddled with the carb for a while after that, then pushed it out of the shed, mounted it and began my great adventure. This old Harley had a gearshift, positioned on the right side of the fuel tank. The clutch was located on the left side pedal. The brakes were activated by hand cables, as I recall the left was rear and the right, front.
So now, ready to go I began driving in a loop through the farmyard, up onto the public road for about 100 yards, then back through the farm.
I never got above 2nd gear but on my 8th or 9th pass through the farmyard, Grandpa`s prize sow appeared, standing right in the middle of the road. I grabbed all of the brakes I could but was unable to avoid the collision.
The result was that I got tossed into the door of the root cellar with a broken collarbone. The sow had to be slaughtered due to her injuries and the `bike` was a write off.
Grandpa never forgave me for this. He had a very unnatural attachment to that pig, (I think.)
Everything in excess! To enjoy the flavor of life, take big bites. Moderation is for monks.