atomsplitter
Living Legend
- Joined
- Nov 29, 2007
- Messages
- 4,299
- Location
- Keller, TX
- Ride
- 23 Rocket GT, 20 Bobber Blk, 22 Speed Triple RS
I wish I could say that was my only dongo off that Yamaha, but alas I had a few more.
Like the get-off I had going over to my brother Mark’s house which is on Skiddy Road trailing my brother. There are a series of switchbacks going downhill as you’re headed west. He was riding his 75 Suzuki T500 Titan and was in lead position. When we got to those switchbacks, he disappeared going down the hill while I was busy trying to keep my mufflers from scraping off and avoiding the rock-strewn ditches on either side. By time I got to the bottom of the hill and rounded that last curve I saw Mark sitting on his bike, he had his bike up on the center stand and Mark was reclining with his legs crossed over the handlebars and leaning against his sissy-bar backrest. His bike was a road ready Barca Lounger. I was on my rear brake to slow and started to make the turn right when the rear end suddenly broke loose, caught, and then high sided me off the bike. On the way over the fuel tank I heard a cannon shot go off and while sailing through the ethereal blue skies of Kansas I wondered who was firing cannons on, near or at Skiddy road.
My brother was standing over me when I woke up from my nap on road cinders and gravel and he was looking a bit strange. Odd that I would take a snooze mid-day mid-road mid ride, and I will admit I woke less than fully refreshed.
“You, OK?” he asked.
“Define OK.” I replied.
“You gonna live?” was his apparent definition of OK.
“I’m fine, where’s the truck that hit me?” I wondered aloud. Somehow doing a face plant onto Kansas macadam was becoming a true annoyance.
“Your back tire slid,” he stated flatly.
“Ow,” I said instead of ‘oh, really’. Sometimes I have no imagination at all.
I then rolled over to stand up. That’s when I realized that cannon shot I had heard while sailing over the fuel tank wasn’t a howitzer or field piece at all, it had only been my right knee exploding. There was some feelings coming back into it as I tried to rise and none of them were good, in fact they were all bad. Mark helped me pick my bike up and we inspected the damage; it was thank goodness (and drat the luck) all cosmetic (again). The rear tire turned out to be not only bald but really slick as well. I had not changed the tires since buying the bike and it was baldish when I bought it and putting a couple of thousand miles on it hadn’t improved tread depth at all. Now the carcass was showing through in several spots. Well, after inspection the bike seemed serviceable so all I had to do was start it, which required a stout kick using my right leg, the one with the now exploded knee. Well just put that nagging burning sensation aside and ‘git er done,’ to wit I romped down on the kick starter, and it roared to life. The bike’s motor, however, just spun a couple revolutions. My knee at that moment was a tender spot with a flaming white-hot poker wedged in it causing an eye watering agony as I had never experienced. The bike had to be started If I wanted to get to civilization so, I held back the tears and gave it another rip. This time the engine started, and I was seeing some pretty dazzling sparkly stars dancing in my eyes through the fountains of water erupting from them. One might surmise it was a smidgeon more than a slight twinge or mild ache. The ride home was at a very modest pace as any vibration, bump, or chassis upset was felt first in my knee. When my parents saw my condition as I limped through the door, they did me the favor of only shaking their heads as I headed to the shower and then went to bed after. That night while asleep in bed I came bolt upright from my slumbers at 2AM when my knee for whatever reason decided it was time to secede from my leg and had gone to war with nervous system. The shelling of pain impulses my brain was taking from my knee was causing me to see amber waves of pain. My eyes were treated to the star-spangled hammer, those twinklers you see when you accidentally slam your cranium with a 2-pound sledge. While it was all patriotic it was less joy than a fourth of July picnic.
When I limped into the Emergency Room that next morning the ER doctor (an apparent escapee from the nursing home across the street) pronounced my knee was only ‘strained.’ I would have put cash money on pureed. I was willing to bet that if anyone stuck a needle into my kneecap it would have poured all its contents onto the floor (cartilage, bone and meniscus), it had all the support of cold oatmeal. That particular dongo (a term coined by my older brother for any spectacular get-offs) hurt for about 6 months. It would occasionally ‘twinge’ while healing which meant it felt like my hair lighting on fire while white hot pokers were gouging azure, blue light streaks across my vision and my vocabulary, other than that it wasn’t too bad.
My one really bad dongo happened in 1978. I had stopped by my dad’s bicycle shop in Junction City to pick up a 27” bicycle wheel for my work in Manhattan. The sporting goods store where I worked as a bicycle mechanic had a supplier that was slow on deliveries so I would occasionally buy parts I was out of from my dad rather than wait on the parts distributor the store used. The store owner didn’t mind since he was getting his cut on the labor and parts. I bungeed the wheel onto my bike’s luggage rack and headed to work on a clear sunny weekday morning. As I was going past the local beer distributor’s warehouse on K-18 about 2 miles from Stagg Hill Golf Course just outside Manhattan, KS I saw a large land yacht pull into the center median between the divided highways at the golf course entrance. K-18 at this point was a 4-lane divided highway. This car had plenty of time to cross the road since I was doing the speed limit 55 mph, and he was a half mile away. But instead of crossing the highway he just sat there. He sat there for well over 20 seconds. He sat there like a squatting toad waiting for a fly right up until I got within fifty yards of him. Then he pulled out onto the highway. Just to make sure the local ambulance company had something to do that morning, once the old geezer behind the wheel had both lanes fully covered with his Buick Electra 225 Land Barge, he slammed on his brakes and parked in both lanes of east bound K-18. That left me two distinct options for my intended line of travel. Option one included using the ditch and then trying to negotiate a three-foot culvert complete with decapitating corrugated drainage whistle. I didn’t think I could ride the bike through that small an opening, so I looked at option two. Plant my bike right behind the front tire to clear his windshield and use my momentum to jettison me past the ensuing wreck.
Now I’d like to point out here that the previous year I had run into a slight snag with my Yamaha XS 650. The snag was the wiring harness had toasted itself rather spectacularly while riding home one morning at 2AM. The ‘magic’ smoke billowed out of the ignition switch in a cumulus cloud of ozone and the lights went very dim and the engine died instantly. Replacing the ignition switch with a new unit had only managed to release its magic smoke rather spectacularly but did not fix anything. So, I was left with taking it to the dealer for some repairs because I’m not an electrical kind of guy. They diagnosed the wiring harness was completely trashed and needed to order a new one. They did and the backorder stated it would come directly from Japan, so a couple months of waiting was necessary. On the plus side this happened in late September, so the riding season was almost done. On the downside there was no telling when I might get my scoot back. So, after I found out they would be waiting months not weeks for a replacement I requested they find out why my electric starter was MIA. They pulled the starter found the internals were a pile of rusticles that 4 years earlier had been an armature. That was OK since the windings were also part of the rust pile. The starter replacement cost was $140.00. Ouch.
OK with that fixed why does it drip oil (my father was curious)? The lower sump case near the shifter spindle was cracked. That’s $160.00, before installation. Ouch again. Well, if you must tear it apart anyway to replace the lower case how about we put oversize pistons, some chrome rings and better connecting rods in there. Sure, they said. Then let’s put some meaty carburetors on it and a high lift cam too if you please. ‘No problemo,’ was their response. And by the by can that pogo stick ride be improved upon? Sure, they said. I wasn’t riding it so why not spend my hard-earned cash improving on the original. This was the beginning of my penchant for changing stuff that didn’t need fixed. All said and done when the bike was ready to pick up the dealer offered to trade me my bike for a brand new XS 650 he had on the showroom floor for only $200.00 difference.
Prompting me to ask, “will it be as fast?”
“No,” he said, “not even close.”
“Will it handle better,” I queried thinking about my suspension upgrades.
“Not even close,” he said with a smile.
“Is it more comfortable?” I wondered after changing bars, seat and backrest.
“Not a chance,” he stated flatly.
“Then why would I want to trade?” I was confused.
“Because its new,” he said with grin.
“No thanks,” I said.
The final bill was an eye-watering, gut wrenching, testicle twisting $1900.00 for the bike, of that amount $1500 was in the motor parts getting it to almost competition grade. I could smoke bikes up to 1000cc and they would be left scratching their heads as to what the hell just blew them into the weeds. I remember an old Ford pickup wanting to race me while headed home on K-18 and at about 110 mph I kicked it into 5th gear and waved goodbye them. All I saw was a receding pickup truck in my mirrors. My bike was pretty fast by that point.
Like the get-off I had going over to my brother Mark’s house which is on Skiddy Road trailing my brother. There are a series of switchbacks going downhill as you’re headed west. He was riding his 75 Suzuki T500 Titan and was in lead position. When we got to those switchbacks, he disappeared going down the hill while I was busy trying to keep my mufflers from scraping off and avoiding the rock-strewn ditches on either side. By time I got to the bottom of the hill and rounded that last curve I saw Mark sitting on his bike, he had his bike up on the center stand and Mark was reclining with his legs crossed over the handlebars and leaning against his sissy-bar backrest. His bike was a road ready Barca Lounger. I was on my rear brake to slow and started to make the turn right when the rear end suddenly broke loose, caught, and then high sided me off the bike. On the way over the fuel tank I heard a cannon shot go off and while sailing through the ethereal blue skies of Kansas I wondered who was firing cannons on, near or at Skiddy road.
My brother was standing over me when I woke up from my nap on road cinders and gravel and he was looking a bit strange. Odd that I would take a snooze mid-day mid-road mid ride, and I will admit I woke less than fully refreshed.
“You, OK?” he asked.
“Define OK.” I replied.
“You gonna live?” was his apparent definition of OK.
“I’m fine, where’s the truck that hit me?” I wondered aloud. Somehow doing a face plant onto Kansas macadam was becoming a true annoyance.
“Your back tire slid,” he stated flatly.
“Ow,” I said instead of ‘oh, really’. Sometimes I have no imagination at all.
I then rolled over to stand up. That’s when I realized that cannon shot I had heard while sailing over the fuel tank wasn’t a howitzer or field piece at all, it had only been my right knee exploding. There was some feelings coming back into it as I tried to rise and none of them were good, in fact they were all bad. Mark helped me pick my bike up and we inspected the damage; it was thank goodness (and drat the luck) all cosmetic (again). The rear tire turned out to be not only bald but really slick as well. I had not changed the tires since buying the bike and it was baldish when I bought it and putting a couple of thousand miles on it hadn’t improved tread depth at all. Now the carcass was showing through in several spots. Well, after inspection the bike seemed serviceable so all I had to do was start it, which required a stout kick using my right leg, the one with the now exploded knee. Well just put that nagging burning sensation aside and ‘git er done,’ to wit I romped down on the kick starter, and it roared to life. The bike’s motor, however, just spun a couple revolutions. My knee at that moment was a tender spot with a flaming white-hot poker wedged in it causing an eye watering agony as I had never experienced. The bike had to be started If I wanted to get to civilization so, I held back the tears and gave it another rip. This time the engine started, and I was seeing some pretty dazzling sparkly stars dancing in my eyes through the fountains of water erupting from them. One might surmise it was a smidgeon more than a slight twinge or mild ache. The ride home was at a very modest pace as any vibration, bump, or chassis upset was felt first in my knee. When my parents saw my condition as I limped through the door, they did me the favor of only shaking their heads as I headed to the shower and then went to bed after. That night while asleep in bed I came bolt upright from my slumbers at 2AM when my knee for whatever reason decided it was time to secede from my leg and had gone to war with nervous system. The shelling of pain impulses my brain was taking from my knee was causing me to see amber waves of pain. My eyes were treated to the star-spangled hammer, those twinklers you see when you accidentally slam your cranium with a 2-pound sledge. While it was all patriotic it was less joy than a fourth of July picnic.
When I limped into the Emergency Room that next morning the ER doctor (an apparent escapee from the nursing home across the street) pronounced my knee was only ‘strained.’ I would have put cash money on pureed. I was willing to bet that if anyone stuck a needle into my kneecap it would have poured all its contents onto the floor (cartilage, bone and meniscus), it had all the support of cold oatmeal. That particular dongo (a term coined by my older brother for any spectacular get-offs) hurt for about 6 months. It would occasionally ‘twinge’ while healing which meant it felt like my hair lighting on fire while white hot pokers were gouging azure, blue light streaks across my vision and my vocabulary, other than that it wasn’t too bad.
My one really bad dongo happened in 1978. I had stopped by my dad’s bicycle shop in Junction City to pick up a 27” bicycle wheel for my work in Manhattan. The sporting goods store where I worked as a bicycle mechanic had a supplier that was slow on deliveries so I would occasionally buy parts I was out of from my dad rather than wait on the parts distributor the store used. The store owner didn’t mind since he was getting his cut on the labor and parts. I bungeed the wheel onto my bike’s luggage rack and headed to work on a clear sunny weekday morning. As I was going past the local beer distributor’s warehouse on K-18 about 2 miles from Stagg Hill Golf Course just outside Manhattan, KS I saw a large land yacht pull into the center median between the divided highways at the golf course entrance. K-18 at this point was a 4-lane divided highway. This car had plenty of time to cross the road since I was doing the speed limit 55 mph, and he was a half mile away. But instead of crossing the highway he just sat there. He sat there for well over 20 seconds. He sat there like a squatting toad waiting for a fly right up until I got within fifty yards of him. Then he pulled out onto the highway. Just to make sure the local ambulance company had something to do that morning, once the old geezer behind the wheel had both lanes fully covered with his Buick Electra 225 Land Barge, he slammed on his brakes and parked in both lanes of east bound K-18. That left me two distinct options for my intended line of travel. Option one included using the ditch and then trying to negotiate a three-foot culvert complete with decapitating corrugated drainage whistle. I didn’t think I could ride the bike through that small an opening, so I looked at option two. Plant my bike right behind the front tire to clear his windshield and use my momentum to jettison me past the ensuing wreck.
Now I’d like to point out here that the previous year I had run into a slight snag with my Yamaha XS 650. The snag was the wiring harness had toasted itself rather spectacularly while riding home one morning at 2AM. The ‘magic’ smoke billowed out of the ignition switch in a cumulus cloud of ozone and the lights went very dim and the engine died instantly. Replacing the ignition switch with a new unit had only managed to release its magic smoke rather spectacularly but did not fix anything. So, I was left with taking it to the dealer for some repairs because I’m not an electrical kind of guy. They diagnosed the wiring harness was completely trashed and needed to order a new one. They did and the backorder stated it would come directly from Japan, so a couple months of waiting was necessary. On the plus side this happened in late September, so the riding season was almost done. On the downside there was no telling when I might get my scoot back. So, after I found out they would be waiting months not weeks for a replacement I requested they find out why my electric starter was MIA. They pulled the starter found the internals were a pile of rusticles that 4 years earlier had been an armature. That was OK since the windings were also part of the rust pile. The starter replacement cost was $140.00. Ouch.
OK with that fixed why does it drip oil (my father was curious)? The lower sump case near the shifter spindle was cracked. That’s $160.00, before installation. Ouch again. Well, if you must tear it apart anyway to replace the lower case how about we put oversize pistons, some chrome rings and better connecting rods in there. Sure, they said. Then let’s put some meaty carburetors on it and a high lift cam too if you please. ‘No problemo,’ was their response. And by the by can that pogo stick ride be improved upon? Sure, they said. I wasn’t riding it so why not spend my hard-earned cash improving on the original. This was the beginning of my penchant for changing stuff that didn’t need fixed. All said and done when the bike was ready to pick up the dealer offered to trade me my bike for a brand new XS 650 he had on the showroom floor for only $200.00 difference.
Prompting me to ask, “will it be as fast?”
“No,” he said, “not even close.”
“Will it handle better,” I queried thinking about my suspension upgrades.
“Not even close,” he said with a smile.
“Is it more comfortable?” I wondered after changing bars, seat and backrest.
“Not a chance,” he stated flatly.
“Then why would I want to trade?” I was confused.
“Because its new,” he said with grin.
“No thanks,” I said.
The final bill was an eye-watering, gut wrenching, testicle twisting $1900.00 for the bike, of that amount $1500 was in the motor parts getting it to almost competition grade. I could smoke bikes up to 1000cc and they would be left scratching their heads as to what the hell just blew them into the weeds. I remember an old Ford pickup wanting to race me while headed home on K-18 and at about 110 mph I kicked it into 5th gear and waved goodbye them. All I saw was a receding pickup truck in my mirrors. My bike was pretty fast by that point.
