GSX1100EX with clip-ons and a hot girlfriend mounted on the back . Upon arriving at what I thought was the rally-site and beholding a Ducati being winched out of the attendant river , I was pleased we had made it unscathed . But we had not made it . We had just arrived at the starting checkpoint . The rally-site was still a billion creek-crossings , cliffs , and shale-drops further on . “ You going to the rally ?” asked an incredulous organiser as he took my money . “ Yes , I am ,” I stated flatly , my mouth already dry with terror . “ Not on that you ’ re not ,” he giggled . But on “ that ” I did indeed go to the rally . It cost me my fork seals , a burnt-out clutch , most of the bearings in my steering head and swingarm , a cracked sub-frame , a bunch of broken spokes on the most beautiful Akront rims in the world , and a girlfriend who would not agree to sexual congress with me for a month – no matter how much Ben Ean moselle I poured into her .
But I made it to the rally-site and I made it home the next day , although the journey was a bit wobbly and fraught . I had had an adventure . A real one . Not some confected celebrity fool-fest . I had striven against terrifying odds and I had prevailed . No-one had my back . There was no back-up vehicle . Hell , there wasn ’ t even a tyre-repair kit in those days . Had my Pirelli Phantom Silver Dots exploded , I would have been stuffing them with grass . Or sheep ’ s wool and Silastic , as a farmer had once advised me during a similar adventure . He did adjure me not to actually murder any of his sheep for the wool but to gather it from the fence-line where it might have rubbed off the animals . Or I would have waited for the rescue crews . My girlfriend would have kept me warm . Or I would have eaten her and hiked out . Adventure righteously , pilgrims . This is not a dress rehearsal .
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