You'll have to be careful not dazzle other drivers though..
Two wheels good.
-
paulplom
- The Geordie Lord, Mario!
- Posts: 26260
- Joined: Fri Aug 23, 2019 7:01 am
- Has thanked: 10349 times
- Been thanked: 5537 times
-
DodgeRover
- Posts: 13784
- Joined: Sun Apr 14, 2019 11:24 pm
- Has thanked: 1829 times
- Been thanked: 2716 times
Re: Two wheels good.
I think I was on about the Gas Works steps section on the Manx 2 day trial.
Just had an action photo pop up on one of the Facebook groups.
That barbed wire doesnt look to inviting if you have a big off
Just had an action photo pop up on one of the Facebook groups.
That barbed wire doesnt look to inviting if you have a big off
- 325675257_700945711397648_6511178573998427249_n.jpg (81.99 KiB) Viewed 370 times
-
xtriple
- Paranoid Dog Parent
- Posts: 1979
- Joined: Fri Jul 26, 2019 3:26 pm
- Has thanked: 190 times
- Been thanked: 1596 times
Re: Two wheels good.
Did I mention that the neighbour two doors up that had his Blandit stolen, got it back?
No? Well, he did. Thieves pushed it down the hill and when it got too much like hard work left it in an alleyway. Fucked the wiring obviously but it's all fixed and back annoying me
No? Well, he did. Thieves pushed it down the hill and when it got too much like hard work left it in an alleyway. Fucked the wiring obviously but it's all fixed and back annoying me
-
Warren t claim
- Posts: 15814
- Joined: Thu Apr 11, 2019 10:16 pm
- Location: Wirral
- Has thanked: 6774 times
- Been thanked: 9494 times
Re: Two wheels good.
Having a mooch on the Yew Emm Gee site and found this amusing story.
BRRRRRING BRRRRING said the alarm clock. ‘Aaaah fuck' said a very sleepy 69. He desperately needed at least five more hours in bed to get over the hangover that made even thinking painful. It was a Friday morning, and not only had the boss only yesterday threatened to fire him if he was late on a Friday again, he had also threatened not to pay him for the work 69 had done the previous week.
He rolled out of his pit, landed on the floor, scrabbled around for his underwear, vaguely noticing that his socks and cacks stank - a result of being worn all week under leathers during the hottest summer for 20 years. But 69 was nothing if not tough, lazy and a complete slob, so he donned them regardless.
His leathers, veterans of more than a few unfortunate incidents, had a nice battered look. 69 always wore them because they made him look hard since he only weighed eight and a half stone, he needed all the help he could get. He finally managed to get them on, then his boots. He was ready for his breakfast until he saw the remnants of the previous evening's Indian Takeaway, then the full violence of his hangover made itself really felt. With a churning stomach he managed to fumble for his helmet and gloves, get his handheld radio off the charger into its holster and over his shoulder. Then he was outside taking deep breaths of the relatively fresh air.
He thought he was going to make it, until he saw his bike, a Suzuki GS850GT that had once been a bright red but now was coated in a layer of matt black. The bike had been completely sprayed from a distance and 69 had spent quite a time scraping the matt black off the clocks and lights. The seat was covered with a sheepskin held in place with a couple of bungees. Both the mirrors were broken, as were all the indicators. Anything that wasn’t broken or matt black was rusty. But visually revolting as this was, 69 would’ve been able to handle it had not next doors cat been seated on the bike. 69 hated cats almost as much as he hated the taste of the yellow vileness that splashed onto the pavement from his mouth.
Dragging himself upright and taking little heed of the twitching curtains, he threw a stone at the cat. When it had vacated the seat, he put his key in the ignition, turned on and thumbed the starter. The bloody thing started as usual. While he was waiting for it to warm up, he called in, keying his transmit button he shouted, ‘69, 69 mobile in Streatham.’
‘Ohmygod, 69 is up and about, and it’s only 9 o’clock. Come on in boy, call me closer’ came back the voice of Mike, the controller, who managed to be both revoltingly cheerful and viciously sarcastic at the same time. 69 got the choke off and proceeded to join the traffic as the several million lemmings attempted to get their Ford Jelly Moulds to the one remaining parking place. The rush hour was at its height, all four wheelers down to walking pace if they were lucky. The bus drivers had become really mad, just throwing their huge vehicles at cars in order to get back into the flow.
69 viewed the activities of the car drivers with a kind of aloof disdain that is usually reserved for lower life forms (as indeed they are) and carried on down the outside as is a motorcyclist’s god given right. But sometimes the fact that bikes can move when cars driven by older, saner and richer people attracts a certain envy. Maybe it was just pure jealousy that motivated the driver of the R-reg Granada who was coming in the opposite direction to swerve towards 69, put his lights on full beam and sound his horn. Just before he hit 69’s leg he swerved back again.
As soon as 69 saw the bright red Granada he knew what it would do. The driver had done the same trick several times to him over the past year - from the way he was always roaring with laughter along with his mate, the game still held some amusement for them. From the way 69 had to tighten his sphincter to prevent an embarrassing incident, the game still held a certain amount of raw terror for him. He vowed his revenge, but knew that to chase them would do no good as they would probably just give him a good kicking if it came to a fight.
Just as he was contemplating how to get even, his radio crackled into life and he was sent to collect a package from a PC Kerr at Kennington cop shop. The police station was not very far away and he was soon there. Out of respect for the law, he parked his out of tax and MOT, and dodgy-tyred heap around the corner.
He strode purposefully in and gave the enquiries bell a long hard push. A cop came and opened the sliding window. He took a good long look at 69, he was particularly taken by his long greasy hair and pasty complexion. ‘Yes, he asked, omitting the Sir. ‘I've come to collect something from a PC Kerr, said 69. The cop got a whiff of 69’s breath and wondered if he could get him on a D&D, but gave up the idea ‘cos it meant getting closer to him. Best to get him out as quick as possible, he thought, ‘Well, you're out of luck son, ‘cos we don’t have a PC Kerr.’ he said.
69 went outside to radio in and complain of the non-existence of PC Kerr. They told him to go back in and added that his first name was Wayne. The controller sounded a bit peeved so he didn’t argue, he just went back in. He gave the bell a nice long press. In fact, his finger was still on the button when the window banged open. ‘What do you want now, said the cop, obviously annoyed.
‘My controller says there is a PC Kerr, and he is here, his first name is Wayne, Wayne Kerr.’ The cop looked at him for a couple of seconds, then he called out over his shoulder, ‘Hey, any of you want to breathalyse a little twat who's come in here asking after a PC Wanker?’ When he turned back, 69 was no longer in sight, as soon as he had muttered the name in full, he realised the trick, and when the cop turned he went into sprint mode and dashed out.
Once on the bike and rolling there was little chance of getting caught, no-one would get his number, the plate had been treated to a squirt of matt black and was a tad difficult to read. Once clear he keyed his radio, ‘I suppose you think that’s funny, he said. The base control button was pressed in reply but no words came out, just the sound of riotous laughter. Friday progressed and got a bit better.
69's hangover gradually faded, he did a few jobs and even managed to eat something. He was just about to return to the office to collect his pay, following a big Merc, when inspiration struck him. Actually, it was a lot of cold, soapy water that hit him in the face. The driver of the Merc had decided to wash his windscreen, and because the nozzles were not quite adjusted correctly, most of the water went over the roof and into 69's face. At first he was annoyed until he realised how he could get his revenge on the Granada.
The next day he rose early unheard of for him on a Saturday, he hacked off to the nearest breakers yard, found a donor Merc and ripped out the pump, pipes, nozzles and reservoir. After blowing the fuses a couple of times he finally got it to work. The two nozzles he attached to the right-hand upper fairing, the pipes led from them to the pump, that fitted nicely into a fairing side pocket. The reservoir was positioned on the other side. An on-off switch was fitted close to his left hand, so all he had to do was was throw it and a continuous stream of water would blast out of the two nozzles. 69 was very happy with the fruits of his labour and could hardly wait for Monday.
His enthusiasm meant that not only did the milkman almost drop his bottles, he’d got up so early that he missed the Granada. At base he showed his creation to Mike and the rest of the lads. ‘How come you only have water in it’ Mike wanted to know. 69 hadn't thought of putting anything else in and said as much. ‘You could use some ammonia, suggested Ted, one of the other riders. ‘No, what you should use is piss. After all, the guy’s taking the piss, it’s only right he should get it back,' declared Mike. So 69 went off to the toilet with the reservoir but he could only manage to fill part of it. It took the combined force of the whole administration staff to fully fill it. This took a fair bit of time and while it was going on, no-one saw what Mike was up to.
The next day he forced himself to take things easy, dressed, ate a hearty breakfast, took his time getting ready and called in. ‘69, be sure to keep us informed, replied Mike. It was just after clearing Brixton that 69 spotted his prey. The Granada was coming toward him, unable to travel too fast because it was stuck behind a lorry. When the driver saw 69 he pulled over on a collision course despite there being plenty of space. He put his headlights and horn on full. As the car closed in, 69 called into his radio, ‘car approaching,' then flicked the switch on.
Instead of spraying the driver, twin fountains of stale urine commenced to drench 69. He tried to switch it off, but the switch broke as soon as he touched it. There was no way of stopping it! By the time he had come to a halt and flicked down the side stand it had run out of piss. 69 was wearing all of it! ‘You bastards,’ he screamed into his radio but the only reply was loud, riotous laughter.
Max Liberson
BRRRRRING BRRRRING said the alarm clock. ‘Aaaah fuck' said a very sleepy 69. He desperately needed at least five more hours in bed to get over the hangover that made even thinking painful. It was a Friday morning, and not only had the boss only yesterday threatened to fire him if he was late on a Friday again, he had also threatened not to pay him for the work 69 had done the previous week.
He rolled out of his pit, landed on the floor, scrabbled around for his underwear, vaguely noticing that his socks and cacks stank - a result of being worn all week under leathers during the hottest summer for 20 years. But 69 was nothing if not tough, lazy and a complete slob, so he donned them regardless.
His leathers, veterans of more than a few unfortunate incidents, had a nice battered look. 69 always wore them because they made him look hard since he only weighed eight and a half stone, he needed all the help he could get. He finally managed to get them on, then his boots. He was ready for his breakfast until he saw the remnants of the previous evening's Indian Takeaway, then the full violence of his hangover made itself really felt. With a churning stomach he managed to fumble for his helmet and gloves, get his handheld radio off the charger into its holster and over his shoulder. Then he was outside taking deep breaths of the relatively fresh air.
He thought he was going to make it, until he saw his bike, a Suzuki GS850GT that had once been a bright red but now was coated in a layer of matt black. The bike had been completely sprayed from a distance and 69 had spent quite a time scraping the matt black off the clocks and lights. The seat was covered with a sheepskin held in place with a couple of bungees. Both the mirrors were broken, as were all the indicators. Anything that wasn’t broken or matt black was rusty. But visually revolting as this was, 69 would’ve been able to handle it had not next doors cat been seated on the bike. 69 hated cats almost as much as he hated the taste of the yellow vileness that splashed onto the pavement from his mouth.
Dragging himself upright and taking little heed of the twitching curtains, he threw a stone at the cat. When it had vacated the seat, he put his key in the ignition, turned on and thumbed the starter. The bloody thing started as usual. While he was waiting for it to warm up, he called in, keying his transmit button he shouted, ‘69, 69 mobile in Streatham.’
‘Ohmygod, 69 is up and about, and it’s only 9 o’clock. Come on in boy, call me closer’ came back the voice of Mike, the controller, who managed to be both revoltingly cheerful and viciously sarcastic at the same time. 69 got the choke off and proceeded to join the traffic as the several million lemmings attempted to get their Ford Jelly Moulds to the one remaining parking place. The rush hour was at its height, all four wheelers down to walking pace if they were lucky. The bus drivers had become really mad, just throwing their huge vehicles at cars in order to get back into the flow.
69 viewed the activities of the car drivers with a kind of aloof disdain that is usually reserved for lower life forms (as indeed they are) and carried on down the outside as is a motorcyclist’s god given right. But sometimes the fact that bikes can move when cars driven by older, saner and richer people attracts a certain envy. Maybe it was just pure jealousy that motivated the driver of the R-reg Granada who was coming in the opposite direction to swerve towards 69, put his lights on full beam and sound his horn. Just before he hit 69’s leg he swerved back again.
As soon as 69 saw the bright red Granada he knew what it would do. The driver had done the same trick several times to him over the past year - from the way he was always roaring with laughter along with his mate, the game still held some amusement for them. From the way 69 had to tighten his sphincter to prevent an embarrassing incident, the game still held a certain amount of raw terror for him. He vowed his revenge, but knew that to chase them would do no good as they would probably just give him a good kicking if it came to a fight.
Just as he was contemplating how to get even, his radio crackled into life and he was sent to collect a package from a PC Kerr at Kennington cop shop. The police station was not very far away and he was soon there. Out of respect for the law, he parked his out of tax and MOT, and dodgy-tyred heap around the corner.
He strode purposefully in and gave the enquiries bell a long hard push. A cop came and opened the sliding window. He took a good long look at 69, he was particularly taken by his long greasy hair and pasty complexion. ‘Yes, he asked, omitting the Sir. ‘I've come to collect something from a PC Kerr, said 69. The cop got a whiff of 69’s breath and wondered if he could get him on a D&D, but gave up the idea ‘cos it meant getting closer to him. Best to get him out as quick as possible, he thought, ‘Well, you're out of luck son, ‘cos we don’t have a PC Kerr.’ he said.
69 went outside to radio in and complain of the non-existence of PC Kerr. They told him to go back in and added that his first name was Wayne. The controller sounded a bit peeved so he didn’t argue, he just went back in. He gave the bell a nice long press. In fact, his finger was still on the button when the window banged open. ‘What do you want now, said the cop, obviously annoyed.
‘My controller says there is a PC Kerr, and he is here, his first name is Wayne, Wayne Kerr.’ The cop looked at him for a couple of seconds, then he called out over his shoulder, ‘Hey, any of you want to breathalyse a little twat who's come in here asking after a PC Wanker?’ When he turned back, 69 was no longer in sight, as soon as he had muttered the name in full, he realised the trick, and when the cop turned he went into sprint mode and dashed out.
Once on the bike and rolling there was little chance of getting caught, no-one would get his number, the plate had been treated to a squirt of matt black and was a tad difficult to read. Once clear he keyed his radio, ‘I suppose you think that’s funny, he said. The base control button was pressed in reply but no words came out, just the sound of riotous laughter. Friday progressed and got a bit better.
69's hangover gradually faded, he did a few jobs and even managed to eat something. He was just about to return to the office to collect his pay, following a big Merc, when inspiration struck him. Actually, it was a lot of cold, soapy water that hit him in the face. The driver of the Merc had decided to wash his windscreen, and because the nozzles were not quite adjusted correctly, most of the water went over the roof and into 69's face. At first he was annoyed until he realised how he could get his revenge on the Granada.
The next day he rose early unheard of for him on a Saturday, he hacked off to the nearest breakers yard, found a donor Merc and ripped out the pump, pipes, nozzles and reservoir. After blowing the fuses a couple of times he finally got it to work. The two nozzles he attached to the right-hand upper fairing, the pipes led from them to the pump, that fitted nicely into a fairing side pocket. The reservoir was positioned on the other side. An on-off switch was fitted close to his left hand, so all he had to do was was throw it and a continuous stream of water would blast out of the two nozzles. 69 was very happy with the fruits of his labour and could hardly wait for Monday.
His enthusiasm meant that not only did the milkman almost drop his bottles, he’d got up so early that he missed the Granada. At base he showed his creation to Mike and the rest of the lads. ‘How come you only have water in it’ Mike wanted to know. 69 hadn't thought of putting anything else in and said as much. ‘You could use some ammonia, suggested Ted, one of the other riders. ‘No, what you should use is piss. After all, the guy’s taking the piss, it’s only right he should get it back,' declared Mike. So 69 went off to the toilet with the reservoir but he could only manage to fill part of it. It took the combined force of the whole administration staff to fully fill it. This took a fair bit of time and while it was going on, no-one saw what Mike was up to.
The next day he forced himself to take things easy, dressed, ate a hearty breakfast, took his time getting ready and called in. ‘69, be sure to keep us informed, replied Mike. It was just after clearing Brixton that 69 spotted his prey. The Granada was coming toward him, unable to travel too fast because it was stuck behind a lorry. When the driver saw 69 he pulled over on a collision course despite there being plenty of space. He put his headlights and horn on full. As the car closed in, 69 called into his radio, ‘car approaching,' then flicked the switch on.
Instead of spraying the driver, twin fountains of stale urine commenced to drench 69. He tried to switch it off, but the switch broke as soon as he touched it. There was no way of stopping it! By the time he had come to a halt and flicked down the side stand it had run out of piss. 69 was wearing all of it! ‘You bastards,’ he screamed into his radio but the only reply was loud, riotous laughter.
Max Liberson
TDW disclock and killswitch champion.
-
jonathan_d
- Posts: 23
- Joined: Wed Jul 07, 2021 10:23 am
- Has thanked: 6 times
- Been thanked: 27 times
Re: Two wheels good.
In case it's of interest to anyone anticipating the weather improving my wife and I are expecting and if the next scan goes as it should I'm probably looking at moving on a few bikes:
1988 CD250, pretty tidy although has crappy ex Police Rickman box, great runner no issues I'm aware of
1991 GT-550, pretty solid bike, went in the shed with carbs needing balancing and failed voltage regulator which had cooked the battery. I have fitted side carriers for some nice old-fashioned suitcase-style side panniers which are very practical and look good
1998 Fazer 600, rides very well, great mechanicals but a bit shabby, paint on tank has been badly retouched after damage from tank protector removal also it has been dropped (not by me!) and as a result the front fairing is cracked and glued back together by the sort of person who would get glue all over the windows of their airfix models. Has excellent GIVI rack and removable box/suitcase.
Fazer and CD both MOTd, GT been in the shed 2 years, I'll probably fix it buy a battery and MOT it when I get round to it.
1988 CD250, pretty tidy although has crappy ex Police Rickman box, great runner no issues I'm aware of
1991 GT-550, pretty solid bike, went in the shed with carbs needing balancing and failed voltage regulator which had cooked the battery. I have fitted side carriers for some nice old-fashioned suitcase-style side panniers which are very practical and look good
1998 Fazer 600, rides very well, great mechanicals but a bit shabby, paint on tank has been badly retouched after damage from tank protector removal also it has been dropped (not by me!) and as a result the front fairing is cracked and glued back together by the sort of person who would get glue all over the windows of their airfix models. Has excellent GIVI rack and removable box/suitcase.
Fazer and CD both MOTd, GT been in the shed 2 years, I'll probably fix it buy a battery and MOT it when I get round to it.
-
Hooli
- Self Appointed Internet God
- Posts: 33667
- Joined: Mon Apr 08, 2019 9:25 pm
- Has thanked: 14419 times
- Been thanked: 11188 times
Re: Two wheels good.
I've spent the day swearing at insurance companies, my price has doubled this year cause of those thieving cunts who deserve to die.
Private signature, do not read
-
Warren t claim
- Posts: 15814
- Joined: Thu Apr 11, 2019 10:16 pm
- Location: Wirral
- Has thanked: 6774 times
- Been thanked: 9494 times
-
Warren t claim
- Posts: 15814
- Joined: Thu Apr 11, 2019 10:16 pm
- Location: Wirral
- Has thanked: 6774 times
- Been thanked: 9494 times
Re: Two wheels good.
What do you want for the Fazer and Gt550?jonathan_d wrote: ↑Mon Jan 23, 2023 8:08 pm In case it's of interest to anyone anticipating the weather improving my wife and I are expecting and if the next scan goes as it should I'm probably looking at moving on a few bikes:
1988 CD250, pretty tidy although has crappy ex Police Rickman box, great runner no issues I'm aware of
1991 GT-550, pretty solid bike, went in the shed with carbs needing balancing and failed voltage regulator which had cooked the battery. I have fitted side carriers for some nice old-fashioned suitcase-style side panniers which are very practical and look good
1998 Fazer 600, rides very well, great mechanicals but a bit shabby, paint on tank has been badly retouched after damage from tank protector removal also it has been dropped (not by me!) and as a result the front fairing is cracked and glued back together by the sort of person who would get glue all over the windows of their airfix models. Has excellent GIVI rack and removable box/suitcase.
Fazer and CD both MOTd, GT been in the shed 2 years, I'll probably fix it buy a battery and MOT it when I get round to it.
TDW disclock and killswitch champion.
-
jonathan_d
- Posts: 23
- Joined: Wed Jul 07, 2021 10:23 am
- Has thanked: 6 times
- Been thanked: 27 times
Re: Two wheels good.
I don't know whether this is realistic because I haven't got my arse into gear and looked at what they're going for these days but the figures I had in mind were maybe £1100 for the Fazer and £900 for the GT; not sure if this is optimistic or pessimistic...