Crotch Rocket
Last Sunday morning at 6:41 a Harley-Davidson Sportster XL 883 was advertised on the Raleigh craigslist. I made a casual inquiry and soon learned that the machine had never been ridden. Seems this fellow won it at one of those "if your key fits, it's yours" give-aways and his family did not approve of his use of the beast. One thing led to another and, after some haggling over some arcane financial details (when you win a motorcycle, (a) you and the IRS are going to get a Form 1099 indicating the value of your winnings in order for (a1) the Federal and State governments to collect taxes on said value of your winnings and (a2) enabling the donor to declare said value a reduction in their taxable income as a marketing expense, and (b) the State of North Carolina is going to collect a 3% Road Use Tax on said value before issuing the luck winner a title of ownership), I found myself at the NC DMV acquiring a license plate for said beast.
Now, Ray Price Harley-Davidson, having sold the machine to the donor and having further provided a bill of sale and title application to the lucky winner, hadn't much interest in keeping a motorcycle now owned by yet another person (me) in the same day around the place overnight. That meant I was going to have to actually drive/ride/accompany this big hunk of steel and rubber and chrome to Cary.
They say first impressions are very important and the first time I engaged the clutch and cranked back the throttle, I got the impression that a war had just broken out on South Saunders Street and I was squeezing the trigger of a very large machine gun. I heard and felt every moving part of the machine doing it's thing. It had the sound and feel of a Savage 12-gauge pump-action shotgun on wheels. Every time a shot was fired by one of the pistons, the machine lunged forward in a cacophony of sound and fury. After each shot, the quieter sounds of gears and valves and drive belts in motion could be briefly heard before the next booming shot was fired. By the time forward velocity had increased sufficiently for a change of gears, all sounds had merged into what can only be described as a roar. Only at that point did I gain a glimmer of hope that I might yet gain some semblance of control over the fury I had just unleased in this snorting, bucking beast. Yep. That first 3 seconds was quite an adrenalin rush, folks.
Now, you can smiliarly feel the engine working in the scooter. But, it's apples and oranges. The difference is not unlike that in firing rounds of .22 ammunition in a plinking rifle and rounds of .30-06 Springfield military ammo in a Browning Automatic Rifle.
I can't wait for daylight!
Now, Ray Price Harley-Davidson, having sold the machine to the donor and having further provided a bill of sale and title application to the lucky winner, hadn't much interest in keeping a motorcycle now owned by yet another person (me) in the same day around the place overnight. That meant I was going to have to actually drive/ride/accompany this big hunk of steel and rubber and chrome to Cary.
They say first impressions are very important and the first time I engaged the clutch and cranked back the throttle, I got the impression that a war had just broken out on South Saunders Street and I was squeezing the trigger of a very large machine gun. I heard and felt every moving part of the machine doing it's thing. It had the sound and feel of a Savage 12-gauge pump-action shotgun on wheels. Every time a shot was fired by one of the pistons, the machine lunged forward in a cacophony of sound and fury. After each shot, the quieter sounds of gears and valves and drive belts in motion could be briefly heard before the next booming shot was fired. By the time forward velocity had increased sufficiently for a change of gears, all sounds had merged into what can only be described as a roar. Only at that point did I gain a glimmer of hope that I might yet gain some semblance of control over the fury I had just unleased in this snorting, bucking beast. Yep. That first 3 seconds was quite an adrenalin rush, folks.
Now, you can smiliarly feel the engine working in the scooter. But, it's apples and oranges. The difference is not unlike that in firing rounds of .22 ammunition in a plinking rifle and rounds of .30-06 Springfield military ammo in a Browning Automatic Rifle.
I can't wait for daylight!
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