http://www.flickr.com/photos/45044766@N03/4243463902/in/set-72157623124898512/True story from the dim and misty past. Â There's more to the tale, but I'm limited to 2K chars, and I can't get the attach function to work.
Anybody interested in more of the story, let  me know and I'll post it.
It was another warm, sunny California weekend, perfect for any outdoor sport, and a great day for a “putt”, as we had come to call our hell-for-leather rides on the secondary roads in the central coast foothills.  “We” were a loose cohort of local riders, more interested in attacking twisty two-lanes at full throttle than cruising city streets.  There were four of us that day; Neil on his BSA Hornet, Ed astride a Bonneville, Mike hanging tough on a Ducati 250 single, and me on my Kawasaki H1 triple.
We always sought out the roads less travelled, both for the challenge and because there was usually less traffic.  But we didn’t count on the CHP cruiser we met going the other way.  We were hanging it out pretty far, and must have looked like four blurs as we whipped by the surprised cop.  I saw his brake lights come on as he rounded the turn we had just exited.  There might have been an instant, a beat or two, when we all sat up and backed off the throttle.  I knew what was happening behind us.  The trooper was throwing his big Dodge cruiser into a 3-point turnaround.  He’d have it floored and be after us in seconds.  As this flashed through my mind, Neil waved his clutch hand as if to say, “crappity smack it!” and cranked the throttle of his Beezer wide open,  crouching over the handlebars in a pose I knew meant fast.  The rest of us, swept up in his wake, were hard on his heels.  Adrenalin and gasoline made for a potent brew, and for the next few miles, we teetered on the wild, joyous edge of careening flight.
