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Being late for work was getting to be a bad habit. This morning as many times before I had over slept and still my bike was down. Then I remembered that old two fifty Francis Barnett I had stuck in the garage, when I had given up repairing it. As rat as it was it still ran, with a down-hill start. I turned on the gas and silently pushed it to the street, lucky I lived on a down grade. Standing on the pegs, because the seat had rotted and fallen off. Oh! If you're wondering why I didn't sit on the fender it also had fallen off when I neglected to replace the bolts. Anyhow, there I was standing on the pegs, doing about 20 down the hill trying to kick it in gear via the broken shifter. When I found a gear the old Francis Barnett coughed and sputtered to life. I twisted the throttle, that little engine roared, that's when I remembered the pipes had rusted off at the head. So here I was, 7 AM roaring through residential town with flames four feet long shooting out of the exhaust ports. I swear someone seeing me would have thought judgement day had arrived. The stop sign at the cross roads cost me about ½" of the sole of my boot as I wildly scuffed the ground in place of my almost non-existent brakes. Pure luck got that little sucker in neutral just in time to do a rolling stop. Thirty seconds more of kicking the vise grip and twisting the throttle jumped me back in gear. Away I thundered. I thought I had the hang of riding in this crouched stance, so I really poured it on. Ohmy God! Coming my way down the opposite lane was a provincial cop! Now if you've ever tried to be cool in the head of a riot, you'll know how I was sweating. Acting as nonchalant as I could, with flames shooting out of my little Francis Barnett, standing/sitting, I passed that cop trying not to look conspicuous. But, alas, I looked over my shoulder, the lights were flashing, and he was making a U-turn. I thought I still had a chance. A short cut through the golf course, down a hundred meters of the wrong side of the divided highway, across the tracks through the company field. Smiling, I had made it to work, in fact I was right in front of the managers plate glass office window. Then to my horror I turned around to find that the long arm of the law had also made it. He wasn't smiling. When he tried to check the brakes by throwing the Francis Barnett in gear, I cringed in fear. The F.B. shot out from under him aimed right at the managers plate glass window. For once the throttle didn't stick and the little F.B. died, clawing it's way up the brick planter only inches from the glass. After the last flame there was a belch of smoke, a cough, and the spirit left the 250 for good. That cop wrote me so many tickets and repair slips, I could have bought a new Harley before I could have paid them all. I mean at 16, I wasn't that financially fit. So he gave me a choice of paying the fines or turning in the registration and plates. That was it, I took it off the road. Never did I ride that Francis Barnett again. By the way, I was on time for work. Thanks only to the heart of that little Francis Barnett 250. May it rest in well-earned peace. |