Evo bends 4 pushrods
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From: Delafield.Wi.
Evo bends 4 pushrods
True story: Told a buddy about a `94 heritage w34kmi. at a indy I was at. It was sweet ie: no rust on spoke nipples. So he buys it and trailers it home and takes it for a ride bending 4 f`ing pushrods a few miles away. He relaced the push rods and has been riding it. Granted this guy is an accomplished truck mechanic. Iknow the guy wouldn`t bs me.
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From: Delafield.Wi.
Yesterday. Or it seems like yesterday. Maybe it was years ago.
That time. That glorious time. What a time we had. My grandpa and I.
Seems like just yesterday.
Down by the lake. Fishing. More sitting there thinking than fishing. No fish were involved. Or if they were, they kept to themselves.
I brought him to this spot. This was my spot. I had found it. That's big stuff for an eight year old. Showing your grandpa your secret fishing spot.
Perfect evening. The smallest breeze. Just enough to keep the warm, summer air moving. But not enough to raise even a ripple on the water.
We sat there. Lines in the water. Watching the sun work it's way toward the horizon, basking in the perfection of the breeze and the sunset and the silence.
Not saying a word. We'd had enough of that, all day long, back at the house, with the women. We'd heard a year's worth of talking that day.
Grandpa and I weren't talking. But it's the words that aren't said that mean the most. And fifty years later, they mean even more.
Eventually, the sun kissed the horizon. It was time to break it up. It was time to walk home.
Heading down the trail, back to the house, Grandpa broke the silence.
"That pushrod story? It's bullshit."
That time. That glorious time. What a time we had. My grandpa and I.
Seems like just yesterday.
Down by the lake. Fishing. More sitting there thinking than fishing. No fish were involved. Or if they were, they kept to themselves.
I brought him to this spot. This was my spot. I had found it. That's big stuff for an eight year old. Showing your grandpa your secret fishing spot.
Perfect evening. The smallest breeze. Just enough to keep the warm, summer air moving. But not enough to raise even a ripple on the water.
We sat there. Lines in the water. Watching the sun work it's way toward the horizon, basking in the perfection of the breeze and the sunset and the silence.
Not saying a word. We'd had enough of that, all day long, back at the house, with the women. We'd heard a year's worth of talking that day.
Grandpa and I weren't talking. But it's the words that aren't said that mean the most. And fifty years later, they mean even more.
Eventually, the sun kissed the horizon. It was time to break it up. It was time to walk home.
Heading down the trail, back to the house, Grandpa broke the silence.
"That pushrod story? It's bullshit."
