Losing Your Manhood.

Motorcycle.com Staff
by Motorcycle.com Staff
Losing your manhood.

Some say there are many ways to lose your “manhood”.

Getting beat bad in a fight. Shutting off too soon for the first corner. Dropping the soap in the shower.

Wearing your wife’s apron when you cook.

You know, pretty much the standard “loss of manhood” stuff we all fear.

But last Sunday I found a new one.

One of MO's most prolific posters, mscuddy, has seen fit to regale us with a harrowing experience he recently had. I rather enjoyed the imagery contained within. Serves him right for burning off the rear rotor on my Bandit.--Pete

See I’d gone riding with some buddies who all had bought new KTM 4 strikers. Big ones. We’d passed up El Mirage that Sunday, since of late it has become a major source revenue for the Federales, what with all the tickets and impounded vehicles. This time we chose the Stoddard Wells OHV area north of Lucerne. Stoddard is wide open with a variety of terrain. Best yet it seems to have no rangers. None. Zip. Zero.

My riding buddies are about 5 years my junior, and I’ve always taken great delight in roosting them whenever and wherever possible. I’ve always been the guy in front, the one to catch. But as we know it age has a way of slowing us down, and when my riding buddies bought these new KTM four strokes a few months back, that became painfully clear.

But while these KTMs are fast, when a long, smooth straight comes up it’s all over. I blow by ‘em like they’re mired in quicksand riding kerosene powered Jawa 90s.

This ride was no different. After they’d humiliated me in the tight stuff, where I wrestled with the mighty CR, slipped the clutch mercilessly and banged into many giant rocks, along came a big open area. Not a rock in sight, with all the puckerbushes spaced evenly, like someone planted them in rows. Yee hah! Screw it on!

So after I passed the last 525 I was tapped out in 5th and flat hauling. Speed to me is an intoxicant, and sometimes I get preoccupied in thought. Right about the time I was thinking, “Should I get a big Jacuzzi for the bathroom or a little one?” the terrain had deteriorated, with washouts and boulders coming up fast.

By this time I'm down a gear, moving along at around 50mph when my front tire boinged off a medium sized flat rock and knocked my right foot off the peg. Then I hit another little rock that bounced the bike into the air, knocking my left foot off the peg. Now I’m in the classic “Flying W” position, and control has gone straight to hell. But I was still thinking to myself “No problem big guy, you’ve been here before, just wait ‘till the old butt slams down on the saddle again, get your feet back on the pegs and screw it on, and don’t let those four strokes catch you”.

But as fate would have it my butt didn’t land back on the seat, but on the flimsy plastic rear fender, which immediately folded up like a cheese omelet and sent my crotch and all it’s contents directly down onto the spinning rear knobby. So there I was, hands still on the grips, with the bike trying to eat me and wad me up into the shock linkage. You wouldn’t think something like getting your jewels torn off through your leathers would give you superhuman strength, but it does.

Somehow I pulled myself up back on the seat, and got my feet on the pegs. But as I sat down again the superheated nylon crotch of my riding pants came in contact my nether regions and it felt like someone had aimed a blowtorch at my nads. OWEEEEE! My buddies had caught up by this time and were perplexed to see me dump the bike on the ground, pull my leathers down around my ankles and dump the entire contents of the camelback on my roasted nuts. Bright red they were.

That was hard to explain to the wife.

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