Hmmm, going back to one's early days there are so many stories, what to choose? Los Angeles SF Valley. 1977. I rode a 1975 KZ400, my first bike.

One day after work, I mounted the bike to take my leave. Blip the starter, and instantly feel a sharp jab at my knee, and see some oblong object flying away from my bike end over end. I look down and star into the abyss... of my rh cylinder, with a nice view of the piston crown in the lovely summer sun. Great.

Now how to get home? Instantly an idea forms in my head: one of my brothers had a lovely long length of nylon rope back at the house. I go back into the office and call home but only my unemployed layabout dad is home. Anyone useful isn't due back for some time. Against my better judgement I ask him to do me a favor and drive out with the rope to give me a tow. He grudginlgy agrees, but wants to finish watching some program on the telly.

He arrives, and OK, things start out better than I expected. At first. He actually knew to tie a decent knot.

We gave a good ten feet of slack between the car and the bike. I don my helmet and golves, and tell him to pull away slowly, and keep to the right. He gets in the car and, he forgets my request and enters autopilot mode soon as he is inside the car and drive as normally would-- he nails the accelerator pedal.

Well the bike lurches forward; I've got to hang on for dear life. I yell for him to slow down, but he responds by hitting the brakes, and I and the KZ plow into the back of the Mercury. Well, I realize now I should have spent some time explaing the obvious. After a bit me blowing some steam and him receiving same, he assists me in heaving the bike upright. The bars are bent. Christ.

I get some leverage and bend them closer to straight, but they are still a tad skewed. As I didn't have the cash to get a proper tow, I decided this was still the best option, so one more time, let's get this thing and me home in one piece. Now I make the conscious and verbal effort to make him understand: take it slooooooow and eazzzzzzzzzy this time, signal me before you inted to brake, signal me when you intend to turn (the signals didn't work- not that he ever used them).

So I was about to shout at him to go when he decides I must have looked ready and he guns it again. I am caught off balance, the bike twists to the side and then DOWN it goes leaving me behind. I look up and see it being dragged behind the Merc like an ethnic minority person in Texas. For half a block. Then he notices. I'm sitting at the side of the road with my head in my hands half enraged half in shock. I did my best to keep my cool- he is trying to help, but he just isn't capable. I decide I better walk down the road where he stopped before he decides to turn back and drag the whole thing back to meet me. I see there is ugly scraping damage and I don't really want to look.

Why me? Will this nightmare ever end? I just want to get it home, please dear ged... I remembered then there was a Honda dealer just a mile or so away- much closer than home, now. But wise-ing up (finally) and trying not to make another attmept to further humiliate myself and further ruin my bike, I pop the trunk (boot) lid and have him assist me wrangle the front of the bike inside. It's a huge car, and resting it half way inside am able to secure it enough with the rope to get it to the dealer, to get the spark plug thread repaired. Finally we make it. I walk home to cool off, swearing to myself that I'll never be in a car where he had the controls.