I encouraged him to putt around on my returned-to-street "race" SR500 when he visited in the late '80s.
He was a casual rider through the years. Very much on and off, with large gaps in ownership. Never wanted me to ride when I started probing the idea. But it was his fault. "Here," he said, arm stretched out, handing me a Cycle World. "Do you want to look at this? I'm not reading them anymore."
Add in the 90 mph blasts along Sir Francis Drake through San Geronimo Valley, clinging to his back, tripping on the way the wind clawed at me from behind... this provided tactile confirmation of the apparent fun visible in the glossy photos of all the magazines I eventually subscribed.
That was when he owned his last bike, a seemingly hulking XS750 triple in grey, which he traded for a camera and payments that never appeared from a local 'street-level pharmaceutical' enthusiast that could and can be found in the rural parts of Marin County. The bike backfired and caught fire in the carb throats during a start attempt, but the machine was hauled from the carport, and disappeared from my greedy, inexperienced hands. All for the better, for everyone involved.
But the hook was set, and I eventually 'borrowed without knowledge' his helmet and bought my own bike.
Supports splitting everywhere.
Locked
