James Burleigh
Well-known member
A hunk of shiny metal.... :angry2:
So coming home tonight, on a 6-lane divided arterial 4 miles from the barn, I thread my way up to the front of the stop light between the mass of metal 4-wheeled cages all around me. I am Superman and they are puny earthlings. They disgust me! :glare:
The light turns green, and I engage the controls with my typical amazing dexterity of the type that makes my fellow motorcyclists weep to behold and my blue steed fly ahead of the pitiful mortals.
I get 20 feet out ahead and...bleeeeeeeech. I ain't got nothin'. Someone threw kryptonite my way. The fiend! It's all I can do to get to the side before a thousand tons of steel and plastic goes over the top of me in the rush to get home first.
So here's what I figure: I get about 32 (****** little) miles to the gallon. So if the reserve is a gallon and a half roughly, I ought to get at least into the 40s on my reserve tripometer. Add to my optimism the fact that all you liars out there claim you get 142 miles to the gallon and stuff like that (the same ones who want a 6th gear--me, I cruise the freeway in 4th at 6 or 7 K).
My motorcycle has just turned into a useless (and very heavy!) object of art. And I had only 38 miles on my reserve tripometer. F**k!
------------------------
Epilogue: I waved down a utility pick-up truck. The guy slows, and I ask if he's got any gas. He says no, but his shop is half a mile away; he'll be right back. Great. While waiting I notice a gardner working a blower a couple blocks away. Gasoline! But soon Mr. Truck comes back. I fill up the tank, then ask George (my new best friend) how I can repay him. "Don't worry about it," he says with a smile, packs up, and pulls away with a wave.
I love people. (It's mankind I can't stand....
)
Jb
So coming home tonight, on a 6-lane divided arterial 4 miles from the barn, I thread my way up to the front of the stop light between the mass of metal 4-wheeled cages all around me. I am Superman and they are puny earthlings. They disgust me! :glare:
The light turns green, and I engage the controls with my typical amazing dexterity of the type that makes my fellow motorcyclists weep to behold and my blue steed fly ahead of the pitiful mortals.
I get 20 feet out ahead and...bleeeeeeeech. I ain't got nothin'. Someone threw kryptonite my way. The fiend! It's all I can do to get to the side before a thousand tons of steel and plastic goes over the top of me in the rush to get home first.
So here's what I figure: I get about 32 (****** little) miles to the gallon. So if the reserve is a gallon and a half roughly, I ought to get at least into the 40s on my reserve tripometer. Add to my optimism the fact that all you liars out there claim you get 142 miles to the gallon and stuff like that (the same ones who want a 6th gear--me, I cruise the freeway in 4th at 6 or 7 K).
My motorcycle has just turned into a useless (and very heavy!) object of art. And I had only 38 miles on my reserve tripometer. F**k!
------------------------
Epilogue: I waved down a utility pick-up truck. The guy slows, and I ask if he's got any gas. He says no, but his shop is half a mile away; he'll be right back. Great. While waiting I notice a gardner working a blower a couple blocks away. Gasoline! But soon Mr. Truck comes back. I fill up the tank, then ask George (my new best friend) how I can repay him. "Don't worry about it," he says with a smile, packs up, and pulls away with a wave.
I love people. (It's mankind I can't stand....
)Jb
Last edited by a moderator:
