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The_AirHawk 10-10-2008 04:48 PM

Coldest ride? That'd be the Winter 'fore last: Went out to start the bike, it wouldn't stay running ('04 FZ-6 w/EFI) 'cuz the FUEL wouldn't vapourise worth a shyte.

After about 20-minutes or so, I'd finally nursed it into a stuttering, wheezing idle. It then occurred to me to check the readout for the intake temp - it showed +8deg F.

I went-ahead and rode to work, the Bank clock I passed in the town just-before my turnoff said +6deg F - and the sun had been up for about an hour by then.

Insulated gloves, handguards on the bars, 'Lectric vest, long-underwear, insulated coveralls, and it still felt like all the fireplaces in the WORLD weren't gonna thaw my frozen fingers. I had to stop about halfway to work at a turnoff, and just sit there cradling the engine until the pain returned to my hands...........

New Personal Riding-Rule after that day: If the bike don't wanna start, take the F'n hint you F'n IDIOT.

seruzawa 10-10-2008 06:25 PM

There are strange things done,
'neath the midnight sun,
by the men who moil for gold.

The Arctic trails have their secret tales,
that would make your blood run cold.

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
but the queerest they e'er did see,

'Twas the night on the marge
of Lake LaBarge,I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennesee,
where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam,
round the pole God only knows.

He was always cold but the smell of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell.

Though he often said in his homey way,
That he'd sooner live in hell.

On a Christmas Day we were riding our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the Aeorstitch’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we’d close, then the faceshields froze till sometimes we couldn’t see; It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our Aerostitches beneath the snow,
And the R1200GSes were fueled, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the tank, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the Givi Toprack, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the road has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the posers, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the fuel was nearly spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I rode the bike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the posers howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with the stupid sidestand;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

with apologies to Robert W. Service

sarnali2 10-10-2008 08:42 PM

My God that's're a goddam genius Saruzawa!!

pushrod 10-13-2008 06:26 AM

That made my morning!

Thanks, Seru!

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