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Now that i've gotten my first post out of the way I suppose I should say hello and actually introduce myself.
Not exactly sure where to start or even what to say.
I've been around, riding, for a few years. Well actually close to 30.
*ducks and cringes just a bit*
My current ride is an FZ6. I was directed here for the related forum by one of the guys on the FZ1OA board. Until today I owned an FZ1. The story is a bit complicated but I can simple it up by saying that I was given a choice, FZ1 or FZ6. I chose the 6 because it is more practical. *shrug* I will miss the shear viceral quality of the FZ1 but I will not miss the fact that my wrists ached for hours after riding it. Combine that feeling with EFI and you got the judgement call in a nutshell.
My first real ride past the dirtbike phase was a VF500F Interceptor, that morphed into an '83 VF750F the following spring. I have little to say about the 500 but the 750 was my first true love after chocolate. I've spent years chasing that same feeling and I have yet to replace the old girl. The new bikes are nice but there's something that sticks with you about that first time. The patchy story I told in another thread is about the old 'Ceptor.
I've mellowed alot over time. I do not race now on the street or otherwise. I put my time in clocking 3 digits and I guess I'm just getting old. ...Or perhaps it has more to do with the fact that my orthopedist put his kids through college on my various bit and parts.
Anyway... The standard line is: "I have nothing to prove."
This brings back fond memories of my adolesence...
It was late summer and I was riding home after visiting family in Cape Giradeau, MO. At the time I live in Southern Illinois. I had ridden this route so many times it was a bit old. I ran down route 3 until I came to my turn and the same vista caught my eye. It was beautiful as only the hills around your home can be. I recalled that right at the base of that foothill was this perfect ribbon of asphault that I had never ventured down. The image ran through my mind of pavement that looked perfect, black and smooth with the amazing sweeping left hand corner as the road bent around the base of the hill. It was sunny and about 75 degrees, the perfect weather for an adventure so I pushed on past my turn to go see what the road had to offer.
I made the turn and started chasing the road to it's end. It was after all headed in the proper direction, away from the river. It had to take me home somehow.
You can see where this is going so I'll save you the suspense, about 8 or so miles in this perfect road morphed into a two lane gravel road. No big! I'm a country girl! Hell the road I live on is gravel too. I pressed on. I was way to deep into this to turn back and I really wanted to see where this mysterious road led.
Five miles later the road narrowed to a single lane. The gravel got much thinner and the road became more of a path for tractors and small farm impliments. Okay... Actually this is better, I thought to myself. No big! Less gravel is good, right?
I traveled some unknown distance further and started thinking to myself, you know... If I had taken my regular route I would be almost to the main road. I've been travelling in roughly the same direction for miles so I cannot be that far off course.
It was then that the whole movie changed for me. I was NOT turning around! I would not! I could not! I looked down into the creek that split this rural excuse for a road in two. It was lined on both banks with smooth rocks that were polished from the flow of water and all roughly the size of my fist. The banks were about 3 feet tall and steep enough that they formed what looked at the time to be nearly a 90 degree angle with the bottom. It always looks worse when you are sitting there on a 550 LB 750cc steel framed sportbike. The water itself was at least a foot deep... Sitting there inspecting I knew that I had one shot at this or I'd be on foot.
I don't need to tell you much more about the glory of this event other than that I did not end up on foot and I did not turn around.
The most precious bit of this whole story comes next...
By this point I am feeling more than a bit distressed. What if there's another one of those things? God! I don't think I could take a second. I was lucky as hell to make it past the first! AND AGAIN with that between me a civilzation I was quite prepared to spend the night sleeping on my bike with my coat shoved under my head as a pillow. I'd done it before! Again... No big!
Then I spied a tractor headed down the road in the same direction I was travelling! Life! People actually LIVE out here? I knew I could catch the old farmer. It would take no special tricks. Just do what you do best kid! So ! sped up a bit and over took the old farmer with ease.
He looked at me like I might have been from Mars. "What are you doing out here young lady?", he said in a throaty voice. "I'm lost.", I said sheepishly. "You don't say.", was his reply. *slides out of her chair* "I would be most appreciative if you could point me in the direction of the main road.", I said hopefully.
Okay... So I can edit for time just by saying that every comedy routine, movie, skit, or play, that you've ever seen on getting directions from some redneck in the middle of nowhere was true. All of them. I heard terms like Old Man Johnson's Grain Sillo, Old Mill Road, blah... blah... Creek. You name it, if it's a bad cliche about rural life he said it.
What I managed to interpret from this dialog was go right at the fork in the road and make the first left and so on...
Long and short I did finally make it out of there after hours of gravel, rutted roads, scary hill folk, and the creek from hell.
What I learned was this... Follow the purdy road until it turns to gravel. Then flip around and ride it again the other way.
That was fricking hilarious, what an awesome story!! It's reminiscent of my adventures on my CT70 in Michigan as a kid, but I didn't travel nearly that far from home. I was always getting lost though.
The worst part or maybe not the worst because I do look back on that time in my life with some fondness, is that the story is pretty close to true. I refuse to say absolutely true because time does tend to warp your perception of events. The whole tale took place somewhere just south of this landwark. Bald Knob Cross Which is located pretty much out in the middle of nowhere.
That was a cool introduction. I'm glad you told us a little more about yourself. You had me worried in your first post.
Post up some pics of the new ride, and of yourself if you want to.
to SBN (again)!
This is The Beast. A bike so affectionately named because she was brutal. The mods were all accomplished by yours truly. Machine work by a buddy in Cinci named Cain. The front end and rear hoop were grafted from a donor YZF600R. You would be amazed how much better an old bike can get with modern suspension and tires.
This is what I rode yesterday.
This is what I'm riding today.
As to pics of me? Well I may have something but I need to dig a bit harder. I'm not a very photogenic person. Or at least I'm picky. I'll see what I can do.
Salutations
to SBN (again)!
What part of the midwest are you from???
