This Monday will be the 10 year anniversary of a Friday the 13th I won't likely forget.I had been crushing hard on a girl in math class. Petite, smart, cute as fuck. The only thing I had going for me besides a bit of awkward charm was my Suzuki TL100R. After many attempts, I finally talked this girl into climbing onto the back. Her roommate decided to ride with my buddy on his GSXR. I covered this girl in my gear, as I had done with a few other ladies. My leather jacket, spare gloves, spare helmet, and the beefiest boots and jeans she owned. Because I didn't have extra riding gear, and I insisted she be entirely leather clad, I was wearing only boots, a helmet and gloves. I could deal with hurting myself, but never someone else. Hey, I was 20, I'd do just about anything in the name of pussy.We rode up SR-42 in Washington, a well known motorcycle road, which in the winter dead-ends at a ski resort. In the summer it's just a nice 60 mile ride up the mountain with a view at the top, and a 60 mile road back down. Neither me nor my buddy had ridden it before, so we decided it would be a nice short, twisty ride.About 40 miles in the real twisties start. Well marked with suggested speeds, decent sight lines, and good pavement. Me and my buddy got a bit cocky, as many riders (let alone young ones with fast bikes) are likely to do. I was in the lead, and came up hot on a corner... a bridge and a small creek, with concrete barriers on either side. It was an unmarked turn, and as all of the other corners had had very thorough signage with recommended speeds, I kept on the throttle. I came in about 50, well within the limits of most of the other corners thus far.But what is this? An uphill, decreasing radius left turn over a bridge, with absolutely no runoff space. By the time my brain recognized there was a problem, I figured I had 2 options. 1) lean hard, trail brake, and hope I pull it off, most likely low siding, sliding into the wall, and losing all the skin on my left side, or 2) stand the fucker straight up, brake as hard as possible, and hope to shave as much speed as possible before my front tire and plastics meet concrete. Something in me chose #2, which I later attributed to target fixation, that dreaded little subconscious miscreant you learn about in the MSF, but only come to fully appreciate when you're barreling toward a wall at 50mph.The bike popped vertical, I grabbed the brakes, and managed to get down to (I think) about 35mph before trading paint with an immovable object. First my tire hit, throwing the bars to the left, breaking my wrist, and thoroughly bending my front wheel. Then the momentum forced the right side of my bike into the wall, which nicely crunched my freshly painted fairings. The split-second move from 35mph to 1mph sent the 100 lb girl into my back, forcing ME to slide ALL the way up the tank, much to the chagrin of my testicles. It was about this point that my buddy (and my passengers roommate) zipped around me, a few inches away. To this day we're not sure how he held on through that corner, but you bet your ass he'll be talking shit 'til we're dead.Somehow I managed to keep the bike upright this whole time. As soon as I stopped I told my pillion to "GET THE FUCK OFF THE BIKE", after which I hobbled my bike to the side of the road, and promptly shoved both hands down the front of my pants, expecting them to return to the fresh pine-scented air covered in blood from my ruptured testes. For whatever reason, they didn't.After gathering ourselves, I called a buddy with a truck and pleaded he make the 100 mile round trip to come get me, my thoroughly agitated lady friend, and my bike, while my buddy and the other girl rode home (likely at a very conservative pace). For whatever fucked up reason, in the hour or so this girl and I had before my friend and his truck showed up, she didn't seem to hate me. Maybe near-death experiences should be the next speed-dating craze. Or maybe not.I learned a lot that day, from target fixation, to the usefulness of proper gear (for you pillion if not yourself), to the fact that yes, apparently, chicks DO dig scars.That was 10 years ago this Monday, the 13th. We've been together ever since that day, the worlds most fucked up first date, which we'll be celebrating with a short motorcycle ride (she's been on her own bike for about 8 years now), a good meal, and each other.Sorry if this was a long, rambling, useless post, but with all the horror stories we read here, especially during the summer months, regarding gear-less crashes, broken bikes and broken bones, sometimes it's nice to hear about motorcycles creating happiness and bringing people together.Ride safe, wear your gear, and go find some fucking twisties. via /r/motorcycles https://www.reddit.com/r/motorcycles/comments/96k6dk/a_short_story_about_a_cute_girl_a_bike_and_a/?utm_source=ifttt
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