mywifeknowseverythin

Ummmmm,,,,,YUP!!!!!! We live right at the Base of the Sierra Nevada's:yes: Nice Pics by the Way:wink:

Pretty Sure that was just Wetness hitting your Pipe and Steaming:wink: Looks and Sounds like it is Running Alright....Hard to tell though putting around in Second....I was Expecting to see ya Hanging off that thing like a Wild man in the Corners and Roostin The Camera person...... Glad you made it through the mud:laugh:

+12 on my drag Z..... All Aluminum......Cant Remember what it Weighs though....I know it was just a Tad more than the Stock Steel one....

Also,,,,,I posted about this Article......Cant Remember Where though:laugh: Its a Very Good Read...... AJMboy.......Before you become "Not Interested" in Trikes.....I think you should give a sport Model a Spin......After all,,,,,If it wasnt for the introduction of the Trike....You might not be riding a Quad:wink: A Good,,, Fast,,, Technical,,, Split Second,,, Make Up Your Mind Or Be Maimed,,, Never Be Able To Have Kids,,,, Hit the Binders Because You Just Scared Yourself,,, And You Are Just Not Used To That Kinda Speed And Reaction Because You Ride a Utility Quad To the Mail Box Kinda Ride.....

You are Correct the HONDA has the Numbers.....However,,,,I know Many people with the Tecate.....Some with a Few..... Here is my Buddy at the Dunes in Oregon..... 86' Tecate..... And his 86 250R

In a small town, an Bot and Dirtygirl had been dating each other for a long time. At the urging of their friends, they decided it was finally time for marriage. Before the wedding, they went out to dinner and had a long conversation regarding how their marriage might work. They discussed finances, living arrangements and so on. Finally, the Bot decided it was time to broach the subject of their physical relationship. 'How do you feel about sex?' he asked, rather trustingly. 'Well,' she said, responding very carefully, 'I'd have to say... I would like it infrequently. ' Then Bot sat quietly for a moment, then over his Beer Bottle, he looked her in the eye and casually asked . 'Is that one word or two?' :laugh:

You will now know the Difference between Inlaws and Outlaws:wink:

Well Bot.....I hate to be the one to burst your bubble....But judging the pitch of the grass Stalks after you went by I am going to have to call BS.....I am an Authority on Grass Movement as I watch that stuff Blow in the Breeze all day.....It is my Professional opinion that you were only going 79.5 MPH and not the 80 you Claim.....

Here you go.....I am playing with Locations for my Helmet Cam today......I want to mount it in a Semi-Permanent Spot......I dont think I have found the location yet though but never the less......Here is a short Vid of my Ventures today...... First location.....Front left A Arm.....Mic in Wind SUCKS...... Second......Left Passenger Handle....Mic not too bad......

I think "WOULDNT" in my Sentence was the KEY word...... So NO WARNING!!!!! Ive been waiting for you to post because I didnt want to be the Bad Guy.....:laugh::laugh:

Hey Bot!!!! I think we would appreciate it very much if you wouldnt Candy Coat your Posts:laugh:

Does Quick Sand Count?????? My youngest about 4 yrs ago....

Altitude- Again this is an issue of air density. At sea level atmospheric pressure is around 15 psi and as the altitude increased the atmospheric pressure decreases. Because less pressure is exerted on a measured volume of air as the altitude increases the air molecules are able to relax and they take up more space leaving less space for additional molecules. The higher the altitude the less air in a measured volume and therefore less oxygen present so jetting will have to be leaned to compensate. Again, temperature, altitude and humidity can be corrected therefor not an issue

Actually I didnt think of it....Ratmeat on SWR Site thought of it and brought it up....I just Transferred it over here to Discuss...... Glad you guys use the System.....It a Good Courtesy to Extend to Riders....

NICE!!!!!

For some reason I just cant let it go.....LMAO!!!! Altitude does not make a Difference if it is Jetted right.....Are you trying to say that if I were to take my Trike to a Oregon Dyno....Then take it to A Colorado Dyno....Jet For Altitude in Both places I would come up with Drastic Changes of HP?????? Come on!!! Can you Break down the Differences over stock for each of these Mods????? Can you tell me exactly what everything does to the STOCK motor to make it Go 120MPH.... In my Old School Brain....they only thing I would need is Gearing For some reason I am just not Seeing a Rappy at 120.....Ive done Close to that on my Street Trike.....It will get there Quick.....Where do you ride that you have that much room....Because I dont see that thing accelerating like my Trike..... Here is some Realistic footage of a Quad going 120...... [ame=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PtVTf100l1Y]YouTube - gsx1000 quad vs 120mph banshee[/ame]

That was Actually a 660 Rappy Sheet I posted.....Wasnt sure what you had.......... Anyway,,,,,We can Type at each other all day about this and get no where......Why dont you start another Thread..... List YOUR Sheet,,,, Exact Specs of YOUR Bike How many miles it takes you to get up to 120 Etc, Etc. Until then Im done with it....Unless you want to fess up and tell us it WAS in the back of the Truck:laugh:

I guess the other 1986 people do not come to the Forums....

Okie Dokie....... Why???? LMAO!!!!

My Wifes POEM: Before I lay me down to sleep, I pray for a man, who's not a creep, One who's handsome, smart and strong. One who loves to listen long, One who thinks before he speaks, One who'll call, not wait for weeks. I pray he's gainfully employed, When I spend his cash, won't be annoyed. Pulls out my chair and opens my door. Massages my back and begs to do more. Oh! Send me a man who'll make love to my mind, Knows what to answer to 'how big is my behind?' I pray that this man will love me to no end, And always be my very best friend. My POEM: I pray for a deaf-mute gymnast nymphomaniac with huge boobs who owns a bar with a lot of motorcycle parking, and loves to send me riding and galavanting. This doesn't rhyme and I don't give a S#@$. The End

Just curious....... When you are riding on Trails with a Group of people and you pass another person or Group going the opposite way....Do you Signal to the on Comers with your Clutch hand how many people behind you?????

I remember wandering down a back road with my father, sitting on my throne watching the trees whiz by, feeling the rumble of our bike beneath us like a contented giant cat. A motorcycle came over a hill toward us and as it went by, my father threw up his gloved clutch hand and gave a little wave. The other biker waved back with the same friendly swing of his left wrist. I tapped my father on his shoulder, which was our signal that I wanted to say something. He cocked his helmeted ear back slightly while keeping his eyes ahead. I yelled, "Do we know him?" "What?" he shouted. "You waved to him. Who was it?" "I don't know. Just another guy on a bike. So I waved." "How come?" "You just do. It's important." Later, when we had stopped for chocolate ice cream, I asked why it was important to wave to other bikers. My father tried to explain how the wave demonstrated comradeship and a mutual understanding of what it was to enjoy riding a motorcycle. He looked for the words to describe how almost all bikers struggled with the same things like cold, rain, heat, car drivers who did not see them, but how riding remained an almost pure pleasure. I was young then and I am not sure that I really understood what he was trying to get across, but . It was a beginning. Afterward, I always waved along with my father when we passed other bikers. I remember one cold October morning when the clouds were heavy and dark, giving us another clue that winter was rolling in from just over the horizon. My father and I were warm inside our car as we headed to a friend's home. Rounding a comer, we saw a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of the road. Past the bike, we saw the rider walking through the ditch, scouring the long grasses crowned with a touch of frost. We pulled over and backed up to where the bike stood. I asked Dad, "Who's that?" "Don't know," he replied. "But he seems to have lost something. Maybe we can give him a hand." We left the car and wandered through the tall grass of the ditch to the biker. He said that he had been pulling on his gloves as he rode and he had lost one. The three of us spent some time combing the ditch, but all we found were two empty cans and a plastic water bottle. My father turned and headed back to our car and I followed him. He opened the trunk and threw the cans and the water bottle into a small cardboard box that we kept for garbage. He rummaged through various tools, oil containers and windshield washer fluid until he found an old crumpled pair of brown leather gloves. Dad straightened them out and handed them to me to hold. He continued looking until he located an old catalogue. I understood why my dad had grabbed the gloves. I had no idea what he was going to do with the catalogue. We headed back to the biker who was still walking the ditch. My dad said, "Here's some gloves for you. And I brought you a catalogue as well." "Thanks," he replied. I really appreciate it." He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a worn black wallet. "Let me give you some money for the gloves," he said as he slid some bills out. "No thanks," my dad replied as I handed the rider the gloves. "They're old and not worth anything anyway." The biker smiled. "Thanks a lot." He pulled on the old gloves and then he unzipped his jacket. I watched as my father handed him the catalogue and the biker slipped it inside his coat. He jostled his jacket around to get the catalogue sitting high and centered under his coat and zipped it up. I remember nodding my head at the time, finally making sense of why my dad had given him the catalogue. It would keep him bit warmer. After wishing the biker well, my father and I left him warming up his bike. Two weeks later, the biker came to our home and returned my father's gloves. He had found our address on the catalogue. Neither my father nor the biker seemed to think that my father stopping at the side of the road for a stranger and giving him a pair of gloves, and that stranger making sure that the gloves were returned, were events at all out of the ordinary for people who rode motorcycles. For me, it was another subtle lesson. It was spring the next year when I was sitting high on my throne, watching the farm fields slip by when I saw two bikes coming towards us. As they rumbled past, both my father and I waved, but the other bikers kept their sunglasses locked straight ahead and did not acknowledge us. I remember thinking that they must have seen us because our waves were too obvious to miss. Why hadn't they waved back? I thought all bikers waved to one another. I patted my father on his shoulder and yelled, "How come they didn't wave to us?" "Don't know. Sometimes they don't." I remember feeling very puzzled. Why wouldn't someone wave back? Later that summer, I turned 12 and learned how to ride a bike with a clutch. I spent many afternoons on a country laneway beside our home, kicking and kicking to start my father's '55 BSA. When it would finally sputter to a start, my concentration would grow to a sharp focus as I tried to let out the clutch slowly while marrying it with just enough throttle to bring me to a smooth takeoff. More often, I lurched and stumbled forward while trying to keep the front wheel straight and remember to pick my feet up. A few feet farther down the lane, I would sigh and begin kicking again. A couple of years later, my older brother began road racing, and I became a racetrack rat. We spent many weekends wandering to several tracks in Ontario-Harewood, Mosport and eventually Shannonville. These were the early years of two-stroke domination, of Kawasaki green and 750 two-stroke triples, of Yvon Duhamel's cat-and-mouse games and the artistry of Steve Baker. Eventually, I started to pursue interests other than the race track. I got my motorcycle license and began wandering the back roads on my own. I found myself stopping along side roads if I saw a rider sitting alone, just checking to see if I could be of help. And I continued to wave to each biker I saw. But I remained confused as to why some riders never waved back. It left me with almost a feeling of rejection, as if I were reaching to shake someone's hand but they kept their arm hanging by their side. I began to canvass my friends about waving. I talked with people I met at bike events, asking what they thought. Most of the riders told me they waved to other motorcyclists and often initiated the friendly air handshake as they passed one another. I did meet some riders, though, who told me that they did not wave to other riders because they felt that they were different from other bikers. They felt that they were "a breed apart." One guy told me in colorful language that he did not "wave to no wusses.'' He went on to say that his kind of bikers were tough, independent, and they did not require or want the help of anyone, whether they rode a bike or not. I suspected that there were some people who bought a bike because they wanted to purchase an image of being tougher, more independent, a not-putting-up-with-anyone's-crap kind of person, but I did not think that this was typical of most riders. People buy bikes for different reasons. Some will be quick to tell you what make it is, how much they paid for it, or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty is going to be strong for some people whether they have a Harley, Ford, Sony, Nike or whatever. Some people want to buy an image and try to purchase another person's perception of them. But it can't be done. They hope that it can, but it can't. Still, there is a group of people who ride bikes who truly are a "breed apart." They appreciate both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride. Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define themselves to themselves alone. They don't care what other people think. They don't care if anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it will go. The bike means something to them that nothing else does. They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don't care whether anyone knows they have a bike. They may not be able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they still know. They might not be able to explain what it means to feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them. But they understand. These are the riders who park their bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and took back. They see something when they look at their bikes that you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They see a part of themselves. These are the riders who understand why they wave to other motorcyclists. They savor the wave. It symbolizes the connection between riders, and if they saw you and your bike on the side of the road, they would stop to help and might not ask your name. They understand what you are up against every time you take your bike on the road-the drivers that do not see you, the ones that cut you off or tailgate you, the potholes that hide in wait. The rain. The cold. I have been shivering and sweating on a bike for more than 40 years. Most of the riders that pass give me a supportive wave. I love it when I see a younger rider on a "crotch rocket" scream past me and wave. New riders carrying on traditions. And I will continue in my attempts to get every biker just a little closer to one another with a simple wave of my gloved clutch hand. And if they do not wave back when I extend my hand into the breeze as I pass them, I will smile a little more. They may be a little mistaken about just who is a "breed apart."

I came across this and thought I would share it. It's a little long, But I think it's a great story with a few good lessons. The Wave By Tom Ruttan The bike's passenger seat swept up just enough that I could see over my father's shoulders. That seat was my throne. My dad and I traveled many back roads, searching for the ones we had never found before. Traveling these roads just to see where they went. Never in a rush. Just be home for supper.

A cruise on the Pacific goes all wrong, the ship sinks, and there are only 3 Survivors; Bob, Tom and Debbie. They manage to swim to a small island and they live there for a couple of years doing what's natural for men and women to do. After several years of casual sex, all the time, Debbie felt absolutely horrible about what she was doing. She felt having sex with both Bob and Tom was so immoral and bad that she killed herself. It was tragic, but Bob and Tom managed to get through it. After a while, Bob and Tom's resistance to nature's urgings waned, and the inevitable happened. Well, a year went by and Bob and Tom began to feel absolutely horrible about what they were doing. So they buried Debbie.