meatbag
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I had a bike. A shiny bike. A pretty shiny bike with an attitude. I liked looking at it but I sure didn't like riding it. This bike, a 1983 WR430 Husky had a bad disposition towards human beings and shook, rattled and scared the bejebus out of all living beings within listening distance. I'm just a guy, a regular guy who likes to go and ride my stuff. This ornery 430 had a left hand kick start. Evil incarnate! I have multiple starting injuries from this diabolical instrument that I still have nightmares from to this day. That's why I have bigger framed friends, heh, heh, heh. Whenever I needed to start the vengeful beast I usually would rope in a bigger friend or 3, having been on the receiving end of a short, left kickstarter with high compression and being bucked off more than I cared to remember.
Rides on the Vengeful Swede usually involved numb hands and feet, blurred vision and a sinking fear off stalling and having no one else around. I managed pretty well though, idling through the twisty areas and finally being able to use 2nd gear for the big hillclimbs. Seriously. Tall gearing. I still to this day don't know how fast it would go in 6th.
I had lent the bike to another friend I'll call Flanders for an afternoon ride while I rode something far more civilized. I was coming down a hill, rounded a large group of trees with a big deep sand well and there on the other side was Flanders, squirming under the laughing Evil Swede, pinned in the crotch of his cargo pants by the handlebar and gas was dripping all over him from the leaky gas cap. He never rode it again.
I remember riding one day with Big Mark. We were climbing a sand hill(which this bike rocketed up) and I had finally gotten used to the tail end of the muffler being on fire, each and every time, when I reached the top of the hill. 2 smallish outer springs weren't enough to hold on the end cap and it would always be dislodged, with the inside, a mysterious cosmic swedish material would be quietly on fire, burning happily away, just a bic lighter sized flame. Casually, I would just pat it with my hand and push the outer cup back on and she would be ready to go again. Hah, taming the beast I thought!
I remember letting Big Mark ride the Swede on the big sand hill. He said he could handle it no problem. Problem? Big Mark is a big tough guy, shoot, he picked me up and spun me over his head one day because I was being a smart ass. Could he tame a bike that makes grown men cry? I really liked being a spectator, heh, heh, heh...I sure enjoyed watching him try to start the ancient beast but finally did get it going after many tries. He proceeded to the big sand hill. The sand was nice. Yes, it was nice sand indeed. The kind of sand that has just enough moisture to make it grippy yet soft. Nice. He got a small run at the bottom and I personally believe when he clicked into second, he opened it up getting about 1/3 up the hill when he was violently assaulted by the Vengeful evil two wheeled spiteful machine. Big Mark got bitten, bitten hard! He flipped the beast over backwards right in front of our small crowd! All eyes were on him as he flailed about and tried to regain what was left of his pride and dignity. I was at the bottom capturing the moments of gold on film, of course, taking pictures for future mocking and teasing sessions, what are friends for?
He got the bike up and promptly gave it back to me. He (happily I'm sure)never rode it again. Wish I could say the same.
Even years later I still cringe at the sight or mention of a left hand kickstarter. She sure was pretty just sitting there, waiting...waiting, patiently, quietly for it's next victim.
Rides on the Vengeful Swede usually involved numb hands and feet, blurred vision and a sinking fear off stalling and having no one else around. I managed pretty well though, idling through the twisty areas and finally being able to use 2nd gear for the big hillclimbs. Seriously. Tall gearing. I still to this day don't know how fast it would go in 6th.
I had lent the bike to another friend I'll call Flanders for an afternoon ride while I rode something far more civilized. I was coming down a hill, rounded a large group of trees with a big deep sand well and there on the other side was Flanders, squirming under the laughing Evil Swede, pinned in the crotch of his cargo pants by the handlebar and gas was dripping all over him from the leaky gas cap. He never rode it again.
I remember riding one day with Big Mark. We were climbing a sand hill(which this bike rocketed up) and I had finally gotten used to the tail end of the muffler being on fire, each and every time, when I reached the top of the hill. 2 smallish outer springs weren't enough to hold on the end cap and it would always be dislodged, with the inside, a mysterious cosmic swedish material would be quietly on fire, burning happily away, just a bic lighter sized flame. Casually, I would just pat it with my hand and push the outer cup back on and she would be ready to go again. Hah, taming the beast I thought!
I remember letting Big Mark ride the Swede on the big sand hill. He said he could handle it no problem. Problem? Big Mark is a big tough guy, shoot, he picked me up and spun me over his head one day because I was being a smart ass. Could he tame a bike that makes grown men cry? I really liked being a spectator, heh, heh, heh...I sure enjoyed watching him try to start the ancient beast but finally did get it going after many tries. He proceeded to the big sand hill. The sand was nice. Yes, it was nice sand indeed. The kind of sand that has just enough moisture to make it grippy yet soft. Nice. He got a small run at the bottom and I personally believe when he clicked into second, he opened it up getting about 1/3 up the hill when he was violently assaulted by the Vengeful evil two wheeled spiteful machine. Big Mark got bitten, bitten hard! He flipped the beast over backwards right in front of our small crowd! All eyes were on him as he flailed about and tried to regain what was left of his pride and dignity. I was at the bottom capturing the moments of gold on film, of course, taking pictures for future mocking and teasing sessions, what are friends for?
He got the bike up and promptly gave it back to me. He (happily I'm sure)never rode it again. Wish I could say the same.
Even years later I still cringe at the sight or mention of a left hand kickstarter. She sure was pretty just sitting there, waiting...waiting, patiently, quietly for it's next victim.
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