Well, here's a little story for ya'll to put it all in perspective. I'll go ahead and get it out of the way that my fav cousin growing up was about 5 years older than me. Obviously I thought he was the coolest thing ever cause I'm the oldest of siblings and he was someone I could look up to. He died on a motorcycle the year he started college at UT on a full ride, hit by drunk driver. Family devastated. Strike one.
Then back in 2005 I broke my mojo hand pinky - only bone I've ever broken - but didn't realize it was broken. My Nana told me it was fine, but then again she survived the Great Depression
and cancer so I now realize she had a totally different definition of
fine.
So the day or two after that, my cousin's-baby-daddy brings over his brand new minibike from his team sponsor (he was the top ranked minibike rider in FL at that time) which had only arrived from Poland just the day prior. He tells me to hop on and so I'm sitting on this thing at 6'1" 230 lbs (he is maybe 5'5" 170ish) revving the throttle, listening intently as he explains stuf.....BAM!!!!! Reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!
I had clamped the clutch hard on my broken finger and as I recoiled in pain let go and immediately the bike jumped right up out from beneath me and proceeded to go airborne,
but I had a
SOLID grip on that throttle so it spun me right, round baby, like a record baby, right round, and back down to earth after about 4 full rotations at high throttle, bike screeching like a banshee the entire trip.
I planted that thing right down on the back tire and only slightly tipped over to the side - in slow motion - at the last second. Nothing more than grass stains on the fenders. Bike was fine; I now had a separated shoulder, broken finger and bruised ego.
Ain't no true American gonna let that be the end of it. I got right back on that bike, after a cursory damage report, and peeled right outta there and down the road at about 50mph burned a donut at the cul de sac, about a quarter mile total, and hit maybe 60 on the way back just barely stopping before I hit West Pipkin Rd in Lakeland (fairly busy road) and creaming myself into a passing car. Strike two.
Strike three means I'm out. I'd rather ride the pine, thanks. I've got one motorcycle story and that's enough for me.