J0nny Ling0

Oh geez. I hope you all are right. It's a big step. But I really want to do something. I actually started a novel once, about my first ship and going to Sea when I was sixteen. And man, this novel will be loaded with violence, SEX, and high adventure and intrigue! And it all really happened. And, I have mentioned it here before, I almost went down on that ship in the North Atlantic in 80 foot seas. Scary, that ..... but hey. I have a coupla more short stories. Mind if I post 'em? Okay. I will go and hunt them up from My Documents, ans then post them. Well, one at a time anyway.....

Wow. That's Michael Rood? How strange... :blink:

Here ya Go: Racial Intolerance, Or, Just pass the whiskey please! By Kevin C. Nye Daryl, one of the few whites in town, was the proprietor of "Lamont's Bed And Breakfast” (B and B) in Emmonak, Alaska, where my partner James Smith and I stayed for three weeks. We were there working, and fine tuning some government housing that our company had built earlier that summer. Daryl’s wife, Rachel, was one quarter French, and three quarter Eskimo. Yupik Eskimo that is. “Yupik” means “raw flesh eater” by the way. Daryl was forty five years old, and Rachel was twenty five. Her grandfather was a Frenchman named Lamont who used to bring the mail from Seward to Nome via dog sled back in the 1920's. They have pictures on their wall of her Grand Pa Pa with his sled and dog teams, mushing along the trail to Nome. His son, Frank, Rachel’s father, is half French and half Eskimo. Now Frank, keeping with his dad's pioneering ways, became a bush pilot as a young man. He flew the mail around Western Alaska, as well as flew hunters around, looking for the big game, and flying them back out when they were almost always one hundred percent successful, mainly taking moose and caribou. Frank was a really nice guy, and would come over to the B and B most evenings to visit with his daughter Rachel. He would usually bring a bottle of cheap vodka stashed in his parka so he could keep the perpetual buzz going. Now. Concerning alcohol in Emmonak : “Emo”, as the locals call it, is a "dry town" where alcohol is completely illegal to buy, sell, or even have in one’s possession. However, the black market sales there are a booming business. As a matter of fact, to buy a cheap bottle of any kind of hard liquor in Emo, one has to pay $200.00 a bottle! Yeah. A fifth of any kind of hard alcohol will cost you that much in Emmonak, I kid you not. And, because we knew of this, we brought down eight "traveler" bottles (the plastic kind) of Jim Beam Whiskey with us from Nome, which is a “wet” town, where all normal sales are legal. Our intention was that of maybe selling it if it looked like a safe bet, or, to at least have some "refreshment" on those long cold nights by the wood stove. Yes, in truth, we had planned on selling some firewater to the indians for a profit. Beer would have been nice, but as you can imagine, smuggling beer on a small, single engine plane brings about a bulk and weight problem. The trick with the "whiskee" is that you take the plastic traveler bottle, open the cap, squeeze the bottle so that the whiskey comes to the top and forces the air out, and then you run the cap back down real tight and then tape it with duct or electrical tape. This way there is no sloshing sound when the pilot loads his airplane up. For, if a Bush pilot knows that there is alcohol on his plane, then he is bound by law to check it out. Most pilots really don’t care and would rather not hear that “sloshing sound”, leaving them with a sense of “plausable deniability”. Transporting illegal whiskey this way is a "cultural thing" that we learned from the local Indiginous Peoples, something that they have become very adept at. Anyway, we decided not to sell it because, even though the Tribal Police buy and sell it to their own people at exorbitant prices, they love to bust the "whites" when they try to do it. So, we just kept it to ourselves and the B and B guy and his wife. We figured we'd better share with them so that we wouldn't get reported to the Tribal Police by Daryl, who actually implied “jokingly” that; “I only have one rule about alcohol here at Lamonts: “If you have it, you have to share it. And if you don’t….” And so. One night at the B and B, we were out in Daryl’s’ snowmobile parts shop, sitting around the wood stove. The "shop" was little more than a glorified wood shack with a six foot seven inch tall ceiling. All of the ceilings in the homes in the Arctic Bush have low ceilings, because it is always sensible to save on heat. Heat rises, and the sooner you can stop it from rising, the warmer yer gonna be! And so, the village Huskies were howling (they howled every night), and it was clear and very bitter cold out. Twenty below, but nice and calm. With Northern Lights blazing, this was one of those great times in my life, right on the banks of the mighty Lower Yukon River, ten miles from the Bering Sea. As cold as it was outside, the shop was cozy. Whenever we did any hanging out and “bs-ing”, we had to go out to the parts shop because my partner, James, smokes cigarettes, and smoking was only allowed out in the shop. So, there we were out in the shop when the door blows open and old Frank comes in and takes a seat on a milk crate. The reason I said “blows open” is because even though it was calm that night, when the door is opened at temperatures that low, the cold air coming in instantly freezes the moisture in the warm air and appears as a “tumbling frozen mist” invading the warmth of the inside of the shack. Like opening a very cold freezer and seeing the frozen mist come billowing out. But in this case, a very large and bitter cold freezer. And so Frank says hi to us all in his unique Eskimo accent, and proceeded to produce his plastic bottle of Popov Vodka, which he in turn passed around, with all of us taking an obligatory pull. Even though he was a really grizzled looking "old man with bad teeth Eskimo dude", we minded our protocol and took a coupla more swigs of the Vodka as it came our way a couple more times. I was inspired to do so by remembering a story my big brother Miles told me about taking a swig off an old black guy's bottle, down on the Potomac River, even though he had a big tumor on his face. And so I swigged right after Frank swigged. After we got a slight buzz on, James and I decided to break out the Jim Beam whiskee, both to spare us the torture of drinking that vodka, as well as to not polish off too much of Franks two hundred dollar bottle. And, also because we could tell that a good time was coming on and we wanted to make a good time better. So, I went into the house, got some paper cups, got a "jug" of Jim Beam, (all of the Eskimos call it a "jug" by the way, no matter what the brand) and came back out and we all listened to Frank tell Bush Pilot stories from when he was a young man. He had even met Wiley Post and Will Rogers before they met their fate in a plane crash up by Point Barrow, Alaska. He was a really neat guy, and I gloried in the fact that I was actually in this remote place, drinking whiskey, and learning of this history, and making my own history for that matter. Just one of those great times in Life, and I guess that’s why I am writing this down…. During this time, the B and B guy, Daryl, slipped into the house and apparently made a phone call, and invited a couple of friends over to the shop for the “party”. So, over comes this guy Al and his cute young wife Lucy, both 100% Yupik Eskimos. She was really cute with beautiful “Chinky’ eyes. So, naturally we shared our stash, and before long, I had to go in and get another jug of Jim Beam. We started to pass this one around, and the old party just got livelier and livelier. At one point, some body mentioned "niggers", and from that, commenced one of the funniest times I have ever had in my entire life. After the "n" word came up, old Frank took the floor and started telling us his story about “niggers”. Apparently he knew alot about 'em in that he had actually “been around some of ‘em” in his younger years. But before I go on, I have to explain something so that you can get a better impact from the story. For some strange reason known only to God, the Eskimos speak with their teeth clenched and with their lower jaw thrust out slightly more than their top jaw, kind of like piranhas. They are kind of breathy and soft spoken when they speak, and is very pleasant to the ear. Go ahead, and quote Chief Dan George from the movie "Little Big Man" while clenching your teeth and saying; "It is a good day to die", or, "I am a Human Being", or, "I will endeavor to persevere"... Now, that's how old Frank sounded when he piped up and said; "When I was in the Air Force, we had niggersh", and began nodding matter of factly, looking from one face to the next. Everybody stopped talking when he said that, and to this I laughed and said; “What do you mean you had niggers? Do you mean you had 'em for breakfast or something?" Just the way he said it sounded so funny. But he went on and said; “Well no, but we had niggersh in the Air Force. Lots of ‘em!” We all looked quizzically at Frank and I said; so there were blacks with you in the Air Force back in the day, huh Frank"? And he says; "Yeah, and this one time we were on this bus going some where, and these niggersh (because of his “teeth clench thing”, it sounded like “niggers” ended in an "sh") were on the bus. And we white guys (Frank is half white and apparently proud of it) said; "Hey you niggersh, you go to the back of the bus! We don't want you niggersh up here because you talk funny. Now go to the back of the bus! But those niggersh told us that no way that they weren't going to ride in the backa' no damn bus and we said you niggersh better go to the back of the bus or we're gonna make you get off this bus! But they told us "no!". "So Frank, what'd ya do?" James asked. And he gives a grin and said; "Well, we stopped the damned bus and told those niggersh to get off and we made 'em get off that damn bus!". Apparently this was back in the early sixties by the way… So, my partner James says; So you don't like niggersh, huh Frank?" And while Frank looked sadly down at his hands, his daughter, Rachel, gives Frank a stern look and says; "Dad, why don't you tell 'em about your grand kids, my nieces and nephews?" And so Frank takes another swig from his jug and gets this downcast look on his face and says resignedly; "My other daughter married a nigger"…Which really shook me, to see his anguish over this fact. But, I said; "So, Frank, you mean to say that your grand kids are "niggersh?" Then he gets a mischievous yet sheepish grin on his face and says, "No, my grand kids they are not Niggersh, they're "Niggemos", little Niggemos!. That's half Nigger, half Eskimo!" Then he looks back down shaking his head but all of a sudden is grinning a bunch because he obviously loves these grand kids of his… As I was taking another pull off of the jug, it registered in my seriously fuzzy head what I had just heard, and I snorted raw whiskey straight through my nose! And we all were laughing so frickin hard we had tears running down our cheeks. And I was coughing and choking and laughing all at the same time, with James beating me on the back and him laughing hilariously! I couldn't speak for five minutes. Gawd it was funny! Niggemos! And of course when he said it he had that "sh" sound tacked to the end of the word making it "Niggemosh" . And Frank was grinning from ear to ear and smiling that beautiful Eskimo smile because he got to be the funny guy. And gawd, my nose was burning, and it took me at least ten minutes to fully recover from that episode. I mean, raw whiskey, fer gawds sake! And since we polished off the better part of four bottles of whiskey, let the record books show that we done took an went an drank eight hunnert dollars of worth a whiskey in one night!! Niggemos. Made me laugh so damned hard I like to have died right there on the floor of that shack out there on the banks of the frozen Yukon River. I just can’t see why it is that God has allowed me to have had such fine adventures in this Life. Mind you, I only reported it as it happened, and I don’t use the “n “word, except to tell this story… This happened back in December 2001 And, you can see an aerial view of Emmonak if you’ll copy this url, then paste it and google it. http://www.explorenorth.com/library/commun.../bl-Emmonak.htm

Hey! Thanks! Ya know, when people say things like; "Never let go of your dreams", my wife has said to me at times; "Kevin, What are your dreams? Do you have any?" And I usually say that; "I just want to raise my kids successfully, and love you like I should". But then she says; "Yeah, but what is your "Dream"? And then I confess that I would like to be a successful writer. And so, I keep putting out short stories, and I actually have a few more in my "archives" if you are interested... Would you like to hear an Eskimo Adventure?

Dances With Coyotes The morning breeze was crisp and cold as I looked across the snow-covered prairie. The snow wasn’t deep, maybe about five inches, but it certainly gave the normal carpet of sage brush a new and refreshing look. I had just let Mr. Starbuck out of my old blue ’79 Ford F-150 pick up truck, and sure enough, he was off and racing along with his nose to the ground, “seeing” what was out there. Starbuck, as I called him, was, at the time, a five year old German Short Haired Pointer. His coat coloration was considered to be “liver and ticked” which, in the world of German Short Hair Pointer breeders means mostly a liver colored brown, with white flecks here and there like a dappled gray horse. But Starbuck was mostly all liver color, causing some less informed folks to mistake him for a skinny Chocolate Lab. I picked him from the litter with his mostly liver color in mind, for, I have always liked solid colors. Naturally, I considered his temperament as well. The reason I called him Mr. Starbuck had nothing to do with the coffee company known as “Starbucks”, although many a yuppy has assumed that his name had something to do with that. The real reason I named him that is because I have been a U.S. Merchant Marine from my youth at sixteen, and had read the classic novel Moby Dick. I knew that the honorable First Mate of Captain Ahab’s cursed ship Pequod was named “Mr. Starbuck”. And thus, my beautiful pup was named. And there it was, a beautiful morning with me looking across the snow covered prairie of the Anchor D Ranch in the Oklahoma Panhandle, as Starbuck was getting his morning run under way. As usual, he was wasting no time sniffing up mice, jack rabbits, and various other scents, his incredibly sensitive bird dog nose captivating him like a slave to his master. And, as he nosed along, all seemed normal and usual, until he stopped dead on point. Like the true champion he was, he was pointing rock solid at something about fifty feet in front of him that was gray, and had the unmistakable shape of another dog. A dog, that looked like a skinny wolf, and was unquestionably a coyote. “Oh geez”, I thought, “what’s going to come of this?” I had always thought that Starbuck had come in contact with coyotes from time to time out there on the prairie, but I had not seen any as of yet, at least not while I was letting Starbuck get his exercise. I had seen a few along the highway, and I had certainly heard the maniacal sound of coyotes howling at the moon from time to time, but never had I seen Starbuck mixing with any coyotes. And there it was. He was on point; immovable with his right front leg hiked up looking at this coyote with a serious intensity. I stared through my binoculars in fearful fascination. I had heard of how coyotes, as a pack, would lure domestic dogs by having a pack member seduce a domestic dog into following it into an ambush, only to be attacked and consumed by his ravenous coyotee brethren. I was really tense as I watched the panting coyote look at my Best Friend with a sly look in his eyes, while Starbuck pointed intensely at this wild dog. Starbuck’s class as a highly bred, finely tuned hunting dog stood out against the coyote’s unruly appearance. But then again, the magnificence of the wild dog and his primordial ability as a hunter was also extremely impressive to me, a long time admirer of the animal world. To Starbuck, this was nothing more than a “macho stand off”, but I feared that to the coyote it was only a game, with the prize being “food”. I knew a bit about the American Coyote, and I have known for a long time that even though the wolf is a very formidable creature, the coyote is the one who has survived the onslaught of American civilization, where the Wolf did not fare quite so well.. I was mesmerized and transfixed, wondering what was to happen next out there during this unfolding drama on the Anchor D Ranch. Starbuck was pointing, the coyote was grinning, and I was worrying behind those binoculars. And all of the sudden, the coyote bolted in the opposite direction, running towards a mesa in the distance. Starbuck, on it in an instant, sprung like lightning and was in hot pursuit of this, his ancient relative El Coyote. And the race was on, with Starbuck gaining with his superior speed. The coyote dashed straight toward the mesa, and with great agility and surprising power, began his sprint toward the top of it with Starbuck in hot pursuit at his heals. And me, at the other end of the drama, was cussing and asking God at the same time to let him live and not lose his life in what appeared to be a very cleverly laid trap. A trap that would end the life of my Best Friend, Mr. Starbuck Von Der Weg. They sprinted to the top of the mesa with a speed and energy that makes we humans wonder how they do it. The coyote was first over the rim, and after about ten feet into the flat top of the mesa, out of no where, at least fifteen gray, dog shaped forms emerged, and converged on Starbuck. This was the end I thought, as I watched, still mesmerized. But shaking it off, I yelled the Hollywood version of; “Noooooo!” But to no avail. He couldn’t hear me at that distance of a thousand yards or more, and even if he could, it wouldn’t have phased him, for he had business to attend to. He was surrounded by a pack of very intense coyotes, and I was too far away with my 9 mm pistola to help him out. Oh, I would have fired some elevated rounds to help him out, but, it would have done him no good, for he was too far away, and in my mind, he was a goner. And then, the most amazing thing happened! Instead of the entire pack converging on him and eating him like a bunch of Texans on a pork chop, miraculously, they all started jumping up and down in the air like pop corn! It was weird almost. They were sniffing each other’s butts and doing what I call the “dog dance” with raised hackles on their backs, but there were no hostilities at all! And this went on for at least two minutes, without a single demonstration of aggression. I was mystified but smiling as I stared through my binoculars. And when they popped up and down, they seemed to be having the very best of times as dogs, meeting an old “lost friend”. But then, just like that, poof, they were gone, melting back into the sage brush as if they’d never even been there, leaving Starbuck looking around and looking as if he were thinking; “Now, where’d they go?” And so I whistled, and the wind carried my call to him, and he immediately began to sprint in my direction. And when he got to me, he was all happy and tail waggin’ as if to say; “Didja see that boss? Didja see alla those wild dogs I was hangin with? And I hugged him and patted him, and told him that; “Ya know bud, I think I’m gonna hafta give you a new name. An indian name. I think I’m gonna hafta call you “Dances With Coyotes….”

Yeah Free At Last. He was such a fine fella. Maybe I could post a pick of that old dude some how. And hey! I wrote a short story about him! Wanna read it? I'll just cut and paste it right here! No wait. I'll just start a different thread. I'll call it "Dances With Coyotes" the name of the story, and possibly thee name of the book I'll write about him some day. And Toppie, thank you for that poem! That was really nice. Dogs are so fine when they are good ones.... Okay, look for that thread!

His name is "Jake". Jake The Dog... He is a German Wire Haired Pointer, or, in the "Dog World", a Deutsch Draathar, which literally means German Wire Hair. I had a German Short Hair, the Grandson of the infamous "TJ", VPW's dog, and he lasted fourteen years and he was a fabulous dog, best friend, and Family Protecter. Yeah, I surely miss that guy. He died while I was away on a ship, and when my wife sent the word that old "Mr. Starbuck" was gone, I went and hid behind the starboard main engine of the M/V Kennicott, and cried my eyes out. It seems that a dog, not only represents the love you may have for hiom or for her, but also the "passing of and era" if you will. Yeah, good old Mr. Starbuck, what a fine friend he was to me. But before I went to sea, the week before, I kind of knew that he was going to be checking out and that I'd never see him again. And so, I bought him some big old chuck steaks, grilled them, and then fed them to him chunk by chunk. It was beautiful man, I tell ya...Got me cryin again all over the place thinkin about that...

And so, here are a coupla more pictures! And Another... I only nees to include one more of my daughter, if I can figger it out.....And, by the way, that is "Jake The Dog"

Aww gee Toppie, no reason to blush. The plain truth is that you are a wonderful gal!

Hokay. I haven't been over here on this thread in a looooong while. So, I dunno what you all have been talkin about. But, I got offa work after putting in a few hrs of OT, and when I got home, I poured me a double shot of Jim Beam, and got on my computer and listened to a coupla songs from my "my downloads", and I have to tell you that Jeff Beck never fails to amaze me when I listen to the song "I'm Goin Down"! Man! What a song! And what a guitarista! Do you guys know the tune? No doubt Socks does, and a number of the rest of youz, but, if any of you can post this tune as a "link" so others can hear it's greatness, I am sure that the rest of the "Guitar Talk" fans would love it. I would be willin to bet that even the bluegrass loving DMiller would get off on it.... And so. Anybody else love that tune? And, what is Jeff Beck doin these days?

You are welcome Free At Last. And if I can figure out how to do it (pics of the whole fam), I will do it... And, I am glad you are free at last. Good deal that!

And Belle, They already love to fish. I believe that I have successfully passed that "vice" along. Maybe I can get them to sometime corrupt TJ's kids one day! Haha!

Well Mr. Strange, I got me a Job. A good one. No more sheetrockin. My shoulders are feelin it, and it's time to move on. And, I got this really cool job at this place called DIPAC which stands for the "Douglas Island Pink And Chum" corporation. DIPAC is comitted to boosting Alska's salmon population, and is in effect a salmon hatchery. I am one of two of the "maintenance engineers", and we keep the "water rollin" (electrical pumps, valves, welding, etc) so that the baby salmon can grow up, go to sea, and come back to the various places where we plant them. Right now, we are in the middle of the biggest return of Chum (Dog Salmon) Salmon ever, and we have harvested to the tune of $20,000.00 worth of salmon eggs (the Japanese buy from us as caviar) A Day for the last three weeks! And also, we harvest by way of purse seiners=a type of commercial fishing boat-up to one million and a half pounds of chum salmon a day, bound for Asian markets where the protein is appreciated. http://www.dipac.net/index.htm And so, I guess the "movin to Texas" thing was a bad case of "winter cabin fever", but I'm okay now, I'm okay. And, I don't think I could take the heat that "would make yer bloomin eyeballs crawl (a line from Gunga Din). And so, we stay put for the time bein..... Fifty eh Toppie? Well, I still think of you as that sweet gal with the pretty eyes. And I would bet that your eyes are still "doe deer beautiful..."

Vickles, Those two guys are Riley and Luke. Riley, the older one giving "the look" is giving the look that we too call "the look". Although it was my daughter Meagan, the oldest, who first did it with our bunch. And so, I will try to figure out how to post a picture of Mrs. Lingo, and daughter "Tialani" (Meagan). Also, maybe I can get a picture of "Keanu" on there. His real name is Trevor.... And, I lived in Alaska from 82 til 86, and we came down to Seattle a couple of times for corps meetings and region things. Went down to Portland once also. And, I did live in Portland, OR from 77 through till 79. And I do seem to remember som gale named "Vicky F" from somewhere back in Wayworld...We have moved back to Alaska though, "back" in 1993 till now. And thanks you all for your compliments. It did me good, because sometimes I think I am starting to feel "old" at 49. Heck, in one more year I'll be half a century old. Weird...

Yes, I have been totally Blitzed on Blatz, after I gave up Schlitz that is... :blink:

Yeah George I know. The young bulls are already creeping up on me. My nineteen year old boy Trevor is taller than me now, but is of a more "lanky" frame work, like my older brother was. And I can't wrestle him like a kid any more. When we "rassle" it's an all out mano y mano thing, and I have to treat him like a man or I lose. Now the bigger of the two in that picture (Riley) is built like a little bull for shore. And the youngest, Luke, was born at 10.2 oz's and has been bigger than the other boys for his age all along. I'm just happy that they are all healthy. And then there is sweet Meagan, who is off working on a ship as we speak. Maybe I can get a picture of her in here too. I just can't figure how to do it because all of my pictures are in my "My Pictures" folder, and the menu here asks for the "http" thing. And Excathedra, that cracked me up "Jonny and his mini me's" And yes, it was Hamms "from the land of sky blue waters. I never liked the beer, but I loved their commercials, with the little indian dude in the canoe and the cool music...

Oh. It's Olympia Beer, native to Oregon and Washington State. I don't like it these days. A cheap beer, and it shows when you drink it...

The candle? Well, it was the Oly makin me do that... And maybe I can post one of me "As I Appear Today", or rather July 4, 2006. Naww can't figure it out...Damn. It's on my desk top, but it asks for the :http thing. I could send it to someone and maybe they could post it....

Umm, no, actually, she is a gal I met up in New York State at Thousand Islands Park one summer just before I went WOW. I "forgot" to mention the Class to her. Her name was Ellen, from Rochester...

This was back when I was a WOW and all that. The last picture, goofy as it is, was when we were doing these coffee houses in Oregon with a "Fifties" theme. Then we would promote the PFAL Class later in the evening. I was one of the lead singers, and I did a song called the "Born Again Boogie" and played my harmonica along with the song. As a band we were really bad. But, we did have a lot of "heart". I cringe now when I think of how poorly we played though. But it was fun anyhoo. The first picture of me was my 21st birthday...

I have the book somewhere around here, in a box probly. But I like the little story in there where Uncle Harry said that they would take whiskey out to the people working on the farm when he was young. He said that the "whiskey was for strength". Well now, I likes whiskee. But when I drink it, I tend to not want to work, but rather to play, to socialize get funny with friends. That quote always puzzled me...

And yeah, Chwester (how ya doin?) I wanna know how good ol Terry is doin these days too. Doesn't s'prise me that he played match maker though. He was big on that. Anyway, you and Terry are great memories in my life, and I am glad to have gotten to know you both. Sadly, Terry "dissed me" badly when I decided to leave The Way. I called him once to tell him of my newborn son Miles Riley Christian Nye, but he hung up on me because, as he said to me that day; "You are nothing but a cop out Nye, you spit in God's face". Thank God I also have a big brother named Christian whom I also named my beautiful son after...

I have a friend here in Juneau who has done took an went and named his big black lab: "Spaz". Cracks me up everytime I see that dog. I just love saying; "How ya doin Spaz"? But, you could name your big black dog either "Rhino" or, "Salty". But then again, you could name him "Larry........"

Hey Frick, Cool about your Suzuki. Mine was metalic green. And I swear, I never had one single problem with that bike the two years I had her! And man she was fast, like you said. On the way through Montana, a friend with whom I rode (my BC in Portland, OR, at the time, not really a friend. In fact he was a rude bastage) had a Moto Guzzi 850 all set up for cafe racing. Any way, we had planned to "roll it out" one time, to see who was faster. Roll it out, you know, already in our highest gear, and just hitting the gas and going. Well, I was tacking around 5 g's at 70 mph, and he was tacking around 35 hundy at the same speed. And so, we gave eachother the nod and we were off. And I flat out left him in the dust cuz that bike of mine jumped so quick. And pretty soon, I topped out at 110 MPH, and my partner came roaring past right at that point. He topped out at 125 mph. And then, when we slowed to 55 just for grins, it seemed as if we could have gotten off and walked! And that was the last time I ever went that fast in my life as a matter of fact, let alone on that bike. Pretty hairy really. I remember thinking; "Gee what would happen if I had a blow out at this speed?" Well, the answer was that I probably woulda died...

Now that you've mentioned the little patch of diesel, I am reminded of a time when I was riding that Suzuki with a gal on back along a windy Oregon mountain road, over by Estacada. I was into a turn going about forty or fifty, when right at the apex of the turn, I hit a patch of shiny black ice. Instantly, I began to slide out, but then I slid off of the patch, and the tires gripped right away, and then we were thrown back up right and almost too far at that. BUt, we made it thank God! I guess that was my closest call. And Jim, you mentioned your little 90 cc Honda. Well, I went and bought a Honda mini 50 for the kids, and we all ride it from time to time. I even rode it in the Haines, Alaska, Fourth Of July parade with a ridiculously large red white and blue Uncle Sam top hat on my head. And being a big guy, it was said that I looked like the proverbial "bear on a tricycle". People laughed alot...