When have you had to pull it?
#21
02-27-2012, 01:43 PM
Seasoned HDF Member
#22
02-27-2012, 01:53 PM
No ****, there I was, deep into territory I had no business being in. My normally reliable chopper had chosen exactly that moment to pull up lame. Plugs fouled from the last batch of bad gas we’d gotten at a run-down little hole-in-the-wall gas station that looked exactly like it probably had for the last 40 years, faded, peeling paint, grimy windows you could almost see through, and a 51 Dodge tow truck sitting on three flat tires.
The skies were angry that night, my friend. Maybe 25 miles down the road from the gas station, halfway between Nowhere and Obscurity, and Pancho and I were faced with having to make an emergency roadside repair in the dwindling light so we could make our pickup later that day at the Mexican border.
I unstrapped the leather tool roll I kept on the forks, and spread my tools out on it. I was concentrating on the task at hand. Pancho was cleaning plugs while I rigged a makeshift filter from an old t-shirt and a tequila bottle. I figured we’d filter the gas from the tanks a couple of times to see if we could clean it enough to get us on our way. I pulled the fuel line from the petcock and let it flow into the tequila bottle.
We heard them before we saw them, a long, low rumble, like distant thunder, angry yet somehow familiar. Looking up, we saw a line of bikers on the horizon, coming our way. Pancho looked up with an expression that said “now wtf?” Years on the road together had enabled us to comminucate in our own particular shorthand. “It’s a good day to die”, I said, and Pancho nodded knowingly.
We quickly put the plugs back in my panhead, but the gas was still trickling into the makeshift filter, like a moonshiner’s still. I keep a Smith and Wesson .380 in my right boot. It’s not the biggest gun you will find, but in the right hands, it’s deadly. In my left boot, I have a SOG mini pentagon, and in a sheath on my waist is my trusty Ka-bar. Maybe not exactly loaded for bear, but certainly equipped for any scuffle we might find coming at us.
As the line of bikers got closer, something didn’t seem right. The bikes were lined up in a zig-zag pattern, some of them were pulling trailers. The noise had actually faded, the thunderous sound we had heard earlier must have actually been thunder. The sound coming from the bikes was more like what you’d expect from a small import.
“Wingers”, I said, and Pancho nodded.
The line of bikes pulled up next to us. “Need any help?” the rider said, He looked more like an overweight accountant than a thug. “Na, we’re good”, said Pancho.
“Are you sure…” the rider started to say. “I said we’re good!” said Pancho emphatically.
The line of yellow and blue bikes, looking more like little dirigibles than motorcycles, started to pull away.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to use our weapons that day, but we were certainly prepared to.
The skies were angry that night, my friend. Maybe 25 miles down the road from the gas station, halfway between Nowhere and Obscurity, and Pancho and I were faced with having to make an emergency roadside repair in the dwindling light so we could make our pickup later that day at the Mexican border.
I unstrapped the leather tool roll I kept on the forks, and spread my tools out on it. I was concentrating on the task at hand. Pancho was cleaning plugs while I rigged a makeshift filter from an old t-shirt and a tequila bottle. I figured we’d filter the gas from the tanks a couple of times to see if we could clean it enough to get us on our way. I pulled the fuel line from the petcock and let it flow into the tequila bottle.
We heard them before we saw them, a long, low rumble, like distant thunder, angry yet somehow familiar. Looking up, we saw a line of bikers on the horizon, coming our way. Pancho looked up with an expression that said “now wtf?” Years on the road together had enabled us to comminucate in our own particular shorthand. “It’s a good day to die”, I said, and Pancho nodded knowingly.
We quickly put the plugs back in my panhead, but the gas was still trickling into the makeshift filter, like a moonshiner’s still. I keep a Smith and Wesson .380 in my right boot. It’s not the biggest gun you will find, but in the right hands, it’s deadly. In my left boot, I have a SOG mini pentagon, and in a sheath on my waist is my trusty Ka-bar. Maybe not exactly loaded for bear, but certainly equipped for any scuffle we might find coming at us.
As the line of bikers got closer, something didn’t seem right. The bikes were lined up in a zig-zag pattern, some of them were pulling trailers. The noise had actually faded, the thunderous sound we had heard earlier must have actually been thunder. The sound coming from the bikes was more like what you’d expect from a small import.
“Wingers”, I said, and Pancho nodded.
The line of bikes pulled up next to us. “Need any help?” the rider said, He looked more like an overweight accountant than a thug. “Na, we’re good”, said Pancho.
“Are you sure…” the rider started to say. “I said we’re good!” said Pancho emphatically.
The line of yellow and blue bikes, looking more like little dirigibles than motorcycles, started to pull away.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to use our weapons that day, but we were certainly prepared to.
#23
02-27-2012, 01:59 PM
I was traveling through the south and came up on one of those cafe's where the waitresses are nude. I was hungry and figured I would stop in for a bite. The waitress that served me was a real hottie. I couldn't finish my breakfast and had to pull it.
Luckily the bathrooms were clean and the place was empty.
Luckily the bathrooms were clean and the place was empty.
No ****, there I was, deep into territory I had no business being in. My normally reliable chopper had chosen exactly that moment to pull up lame. Plugs fouled from the last batch of bad gas we’d gotten at a run-down little hole-in-the-wall gas station that looked exactly like it probably had for the last 40 years, faded, peeling paint, grimy windows you could almost see through, and a 51 Dodge tow truck sitting on three flat tires.
The skies were angry that night, my friend. Maybe 25 miles down the road from the gas station, halfway between Nowhere and Obscurity, and Pancho and I were faced with having to make an emergency roadside repair in the dwindling light so we could make our pickup later that day at the Mexican border.
I unstrapped the leather tool roll I kept on the forks, and spread my tools out on it. I was concentrating on the task at hand. Pancho was cleaning plugs while I rigged a makeshift filter from an old t-shirt and a tequila bottle. I figured we’d filter the gas from the tanks a couple of times to see if we could clean it enough to get us on our way. I pulled the fuel line from the petcock and let it flow into the tequila bottle.
We heard them before we saw them, a long, low rumble, like distant thunder, angry yet somehow familiar. Looking up, we saw a line of bikers on the horizon, coming our way. Pancho looked up with an expression that said “now wtf?” Years on the road together had enabled us to comminucate in our own particular shorthand. “It’s a good day to die”, I said, and Pancho nodded knowingly.
We quickly put the plugs back in my panhead, but the gas was still trickling into the makeshift filter, like a moonshiner’s still. I keep a Smith and Wesson .380 in my right boot. It’s not the biggest gun you will find, but in the right hands, it’s deadly. In my left boot, I have a SOG mini pentagon, and in a sheath on my waist is my trusty Ka-bar. Maybe not exactly loaded for bear, but certainly equipped for any scuffle we might find coming at us.
As the line of bikers got closer, something didn’t seem right. The bikes were lined up in a zig-zag pattern, some of them were pulling trailers. The noise had actually faded, the thunderous sound we had heard earlier must have actually been thunder. The sound coming from the bikes was more like what you’d expect from a small import.
“Wingers”, I said, and Pancho nodded.
The line of bikes pulled up next to us. “Need any help?” the rider said, He looked more like an overweight accountant than a thug. “Na, we’re good”, said Pancho.
“Are you sure…” the rider started to say. “I said we’re good!” said Pancho emphatically.
The line of yellow and blue bikes, looking more like little dirigibles than motorcycles, started to pull away.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to use our weapons that day, but we were certainly prepared to.
The skies were angry that night, my friend. Maybe 25 miles down the road from the gas station, halfway between Nowhere and Obscurity, and Pancho and I were faced with having to make an emergency roadside repair in the dwindling light so we could make our pickup later that day at the Mexican border.
I unstrapped the leather tool roll I kept on the forks, and spread my tools out on it. I was concentrating on the task at hand. Pancho was cleaning plugs while I rigged a makeshift filter from an old t-shirt and a tequila bottle. I figured we’d filter the gas from the tanks a couple of times to see if we could clean it enough to get us on our way. I pulled the fuel line from the petcock and let it flow into the tequila bottle.
We heard them before we saw them, a long, low rumble, like distant thunder, angry yet somehow familiar. Looking up, we saw a line of bikers on the horizon, coming our way. Pancho looked up with an expression that said “now wtf?” Years on the road together had enabled us to comminucate in our own particular shorthand. “It’s a good day to die”, I said, and Pancho nodded knowingly.
We quickly put the plugs back in my panhead, but the gas was still trickling into the makeshift filter, like a moonshiner’s still. I keep a Smith and Wesson .380 in my right boot. It’s not the biggest gun you will find, but in the right hands, it’s deadly. In my left boot, I have a SOG mini pentagon, and in a sheath on my waist is my trusty Ka-bar. Maybe not exactly loaded for bear, but certainly equipped for any scuffle we might find coming at us.
As the line of bikers got closer, something didn’t seem right. The bikes were lined up in a zig-zag pattern, some of them were pulling trailers. The noise had actually faded, the thunderous sound we had heard earlier must have actually been thunder. The sound coming from the bikes was more like what you’d expect from a small import.
“Wingers”, I said, and Pancho nodded.
The line of bikes pulled up next to us. “Need any help?” the rider said, He looked more like an overweight accountant than a thug. “Na, we’re good”, said Pancho.
“Are you sure…” the rider started to say. “I said we’re good!” said Pancho emphatically.
The line of yellow and blue bikes, looking more like little dirigibles than motorcycles, started to pull away.
Fortunately, we didn’t have to use our weapons that day, but we were certainly prepared to.
#27
02-27-2012, 04:08 PM
Road Master
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: GA
Posts: 815
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Granddaddy always taught me that if you are gonna carry it then be prepared to use it and if you pull it then shoot to kill and that way there is only one story when the officers arrive!!
Only had to pull it once and that was to get me and a friend out of a bar that he didn't belong in first place and I had no business going to get him out of that bar! It held them up long enough for us to get to the truck but believe me if one of them had stepped out that door I would have emptied three full clips if needed. Come to think of it he wasn't that good of a friend either
Been carrying nearly 40 years (not always with a permit, Thanks to California) and only pulled it out that one time and hope it is never actually necessary but it is always there if needed.
Only had to pull it once and that was to get me and a friend out of a bar that he didn't belong in first place and I had no business going to get him out of that bar! It held them up long enough for us to get to the truck but believe me if one of them had stepped out that door I would have emptied three full clips if needed. Come to think of it he wasn't that good of a friend either
Been carrying nearly 40 years (not always with a permit, Thanks to California) and only pulled it out that one time and hope it is never actually necessary but it is always there if needed.
#29
02-27-2012, 05:39 PM
Seasoned HDF Member
Join Date: Oct 2007
Location: Western South Dakota
Posts: 55,887
Received 70,460 Likes
on
21,402 Posts
So I consider "pullin' it" as a last resort only.
It's always easy to say what you would do in a specific situation, but until you're there you don't know how you will react.
#30
02-27-2012, 06:00 PM
Stage I
Join Date: Feb 2012
Location: NW ND
Posts: 1
Likes: 0
Received 0 Likes
on
0 Posts
Yup, MN gun laws dumb, Il Dumber and NY Retarded.. 2nd amendment baby, and CP dont cover everywhere.. A person needs like 9 to cover US.
That being said, Dont even try Canada. Handguns NO NO's.
Been in law enforcement 10 yrs never had to "pull it" taken some toyz off schitbags to. guess size and "the look" go along way..
That being said, Dont even try Canada. Handguns NO NO's.
Been in law enforcement 10 yrs never had to "pull it" taken some toyz off schitbags to. guess size and "the look" go along way..