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Embarrassing Bike Related Incidents

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Not me, but a mate of mine back in the day, picked up his brand new Suzuki GT550 and rode it to our usual Friday night bike meeting place. The place was pretty crowded when he arrived, so he made his grand entrance on his new bike. When he stopped he went to put his foot down, but his jeans leg got caught on the footpeg and in slow-motion over he went, to a large cheer from the assembled crowd. We went across and helped him up, once we stopped laughing. He wanted to leave straight away, but we persuaded him to stay.

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6 minutes ago, Tango said:

Not me, but a mate of mine back in the day, picked up his brand new Suzuki GT550 and rode it to our usual Friday night bike meeting place. The place was pretty crowded when he arrived, so he made his grand entrance on his new bike. When he stopped he went to put his foot down, but his jeans leg got caught on the footpeg and in slow-motion over he went, to a large cheer from the assembled crowd. We went across and helped him up, once we stopped laughing. He wanted to leave straight away, but we persuaded him to stay.

That's another one Mandi did but in a petrol station on our way to the tunnel for France. She nearly deafened me over the intercom as she was falling. No harm done luckily.

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My turn.
XL250s, pulled a wheelie at the end of pulling away on a junction but still had some momentum in the bike and ended up on my righthand side in a lump.
Same bike after a morning out off road. Hit the back brake to skid the rear to go into my driveway. Bike does another 90 degs more than I expected and my left leg is stretched as far as it'll go, on the floor in front of many neighbours.

DRZ, wheelie away front the middle of two lanes of traffic on a roundabout only to hit the floor as the front tyre never got to grip the road as it came down. Both lanes of said traffic laughing as they drove passed. My shoulder hurt for months after that one.

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1 hour ago, Catteeclan said:

the front tyre never got to grip the road

Things could have been different if you'd been on part worn DeathWings!

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I got too many to individually recount from the years 71-73......around 20+ unscheduled dismounts.

I hit Slaughter House gates, garage doors, backs of cars, sides of cars, even went under cars.

Went through Indian restaurant windows and landed on tables, hit traffic light poles, trees, barriers, and of course there multiple wheelies that went wrong! I came off the back, off the side, and even over the bars. I wanted to cover all the bases.

I was truly the Dave Croxford of street riding!

Crox raced from 1962 to 1976, crashing no less than 223 times, without breaking a single bone, at a time when Armco was everywhere and body armour was something you found in the Tower of London. No wonder fans called him Rubber Bones.

Many of Croxford’s tumbles were comedy events, in retrospect, at least. “I crashed at Brands while battling with Bazza (Sheene)… I was sliding along on my arse waving at him, and he was waving back.” Or his only TT crash, “This bloody great big pig comes out and it’s running alongside me…”.

Such were the stresses of racing that Crockers sometimes prepared himself for action with a swift one or two in the paddock bar. “You’d have a couple of pints of Guinness and go out. You could do that in them days, it was real good fun!”

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5 minutes ago, XTreme said:

I got too many to individually recount from the years 71-73......around 20+ unscheduled dismounts.

I hit Slaughter House gates, garage doors, backs of cars, sides of cars, even went under cars.

Went through Indian restaurant windows and landed on tables, hit traffic light poles, trees, barriers, and of course there multiple wheelies that went wrong! I came off the back, off the side, and even over the bars. I wanted to cover all the bases.

I was truly the Dave Croxford of street riding!

Crox raced from 1962 to 1976, crashing no less than 223 times, without breaking a single bone, at a time when Armco was everywhere and body armour was something you found in the Tower of London. No wonder fans called him Rubber Bones.

Many of Croxford’s tumbles were comedy events, in retrospect, at least. “I crashed at Brands while battling with Bazza (Sheene)… I was sliding along on my arse waving at him, and he was waving back.” Or his only TT crash, “This bloody great big pig comes out and it’s running alongside me…”.

Such were the stresses of racing that Crockers sometimes prepared himself for action with a swift one or two in the paddock bar. “You’d have a couple of pints of Guinness and go out. You could do that in them days, it was real good fun!”

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I can only recall having 7 unscheduled discounts in my 18 years on bikes and 2 crashes in a car both just small bumps 

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4 hours ago, Richzx6r said:

I can only recall having 7 unscheduled discounts in my 18 years on bikes and 2 crashes in a car both just small bumps 

All mine were 71-73 except for the big one in Feb 1978 when I got thrown off a GT750 at 110 with a tank slapper.

Got up and walked away from that as well.......all I've ever had is a few scrapes!

My Guardian Angel has looked after me!

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My mate rebuilt an old Triumph in his flat's single bedroom. When he moved to a house with a very old very small prefab garage he put his Jaguar in the garage and that stuck out the front so the doors were at 45 degrees open.

The Triumph had turned out to be too big to get round the corners of his flat and stair landings so we had just removed the entire front end, forks, handlebar and front wheel all in one piece and taken it down the stairs in two parts. The front end he carefully propped up in his new front porch against the side window. The first time he opened the front door of the porch with a bit of gusto he pushed the handlebar grip right through the glass of the side window. He put the bike back together and stuck it in his kitchen to keep it safe.

That bloke's wife was a bloody saint!!

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7 minutes ago, yen_powell said:

My mate rebuilt an old Triumph in his flat's single bedroom. When he moved to a house with a very old very small prefab garage he put his Jaguar in the garage and that stuck out the front so the doors were at 45 degrees open.

The Triumph had turned out to be too big to get round the corners of his flat and stair landings so we had just removed the entire front end, forks, handlebar and front wheel all in one piece and taken it down the stairs in two parts. The front end he carefully propped up in his new front porch against the side window. The first time he opened the front door of the porch with a bit of gusto he pushed the handlebar grip right through the glass of the side window. He put the bike back together and stuck it in his kitchen to keep it safe.

That bloke's wife was a bloody saint!!

I put the handlebar of my DT400 right through the bedroom window in 1977.......we were living with the first wife in a grotty one bed ground floor flat then.

She wasn't happy.......but then, she never was happy.

Maybe that's why she threw all my clothes and possessions up the driveway 5 years later.

Some females never take being given the red card in a sporting manner. 

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About a fortnight after sending the CJ250T into the fence, went round to see my mate. "Let's go see the girls," he said. Sounded like a plan. Off we went in the dark to ride to the sisters who we were seeing. I didn't know the roads and he was ragging me at the first junction for not keeping up with his GS750.

"It's just a straight road to their village now," he lied.

Red lining the godawful Honda, I reached a heady 72 on the clock - which probably translates to 19mph in real world speed. Whatever, it was fast enough not to cope with the nearest thing to a chicane Northamptonshire has to offer.

Picking myself back through the trees, lifting the bike out of a bush, the bats and other nocturnal creatures were busy being scared by the sound of him laughing. The cunt.

The handlebars pointed down to the left, the headlight was fixed on a point slightly to the right of the Pole star. Fuck knows what the forks were now trying to do.

Bruised, pissed off, and slightly bleeding, I arrived expecting a warm embrace and (at the very least) a handjob from my girlfriend.

5 minutes later I was riding back home having been binned for the second time that night.

Fortunately, I ploughed the CJ250 into the back of a parked Mini a week later and could forget about fighting with the cunt of a bike forever. Plus, years later, my mate contracted herpes from a hooker in Thailand and passed it on to his fiancé's ringpiece - which gave me a far greater laugh than the cunt had at my expense.

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While the Guzzi was back in the shop again - the shaft seized doing 80mph in lane 3 of the M40, because the PDI failed to include putting oil in the bevel box...thank Motorcycle City, thanks a lot - I took the (then) 6yr daughter to the Harley dealer in Brum.

We used the Ultraglide Classic outside as our personal play park for a good five minutes. Lots of chuckles as she pretended to be a biker making cute brmm brmm noises. She was 6 for fucks sake, she was too young to make potato potato sounds.

"Excuse me sir, can I please ask you to refrain from touching the bike," grumpy salesman said.

"Mate, if you want me to buy a bike you're really going to have to suck up the fact I might want to sit on it."

"Sir, that's not one of our bikes."

[Voiceover: It was at this point our hero spotted a very angry looking HOG club member/accountant or something standing five foot behind him]

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Not really embarrassing at all, this one.

Having bought a Jeep in Caracas, I really fancied two wheels to go in the other parking space under the apartment block. News came through that a mad, drunk French diplomat-type chap was getting shot of his R90S.

$2000 and a rapid test ride around a posh area of the city later, I owned my first and last BMW. No panniers or box, no baffles, and the seat stayed on thanks to a large dose of good will, it was awesome. He even threw in a vintage crash helmet that inspired Boris Johnson levels of confidence.

Who needs a helmet anyway? Not me. This was Caracas for fucks sake. Chavez was in charge, corruption was rife, and my driving test involved paying a little fat man $20 and a bottle of whiskey. Fuck helmets.

The sun shone, the shorts were on, off I road around the city wearing a T-shirt and a fat shit-eating grin.

Parking up at the "Largest shopping centre in South America [tm]", I nodded at the lads standing by their 125s. They nodded back in an odd way. I only realised what their head movements meant when two gun-totting paramilitary rozzers demanded to know "What the actual fuck do you think you're doing?" - in Spanish, naturally.

"Lo siento," I replied, "jo no como eh-spag-nol."

I gambled the best way forward was to feign complete ignorance of everything.

A tortuous exchange then took place with me speaking Spanish in the way Officer Crabtree speaks French in Allo Allo. It was, from my perspective, equally funny. They didn't get the joke quite so much.

At this point the security guard from the shopping centre came over. He was convinced he could act as translator despite not knowing a single word of English. The cops spoke to him. He then looked at me, repeated exactly what they had said to him (that I fully understood), but VERY LOUDLY. I then repeated my version of gibberish at him. After five minutes, he told them he reckoned I had a problem with my head.

Having convinced them I had "mon documentoes" in "mon house-o", pointing vaguely at some houses on a hillside in a far distance, they realised they had better things to do. I was ordered to go straight home and never ride again without a lid and documents. I bade them a good night and wished them to "via con dias".

The 125 lads looked on amazed. I reckon they were deeply impressed and learnt a lesson in how to talk to the fuzz.

I can't prove that these two coppers were part of the group that carried out a drug bust in the bar I was in around 6 months later...but I'm betting they were. I was having a nice rum in a very low-rent and dangerous barrio bar when they bust in. The nice chaps I was chatting with were in the process of exchanging a fucking huge package of white powder for a stupidly large bag of money. Being foreign, it was naturally assumed that I was part of this wonderful example of free markets in action. I spent 12 hours having the shit kicked out of me in a basement by masked cops who were not as accommodating towards my protestations of not being able to eat Spanish. Neither my wife nor my employer were particularly impressed when I surfaced.

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9 minutes ago, Mawsley said:

Not really embarrassing at all, this one.

Having bought a Jeep in Caracas, I really fancied two wheels to go in the other parking space under the apartment block. News came through that a mad, drunk French diplomat-type chap was getting shot of his R90S.

$2000 and a rapid test ride around a posh area of the city later, I owned my first and last BMW. No panniers or box, no baffles, and the seat stayed on thanks to a large dose of good will, it was awesome. He even threw in a vintage crash helmet that inspired Boris Johnson levels of confidence.

Who needs a helmet anyway? Not me. This was Caracas for fucks sake. Chavez was in charge, corruption was rife, and my driving test involved paying a little fat man $20 and a bottle of whiskey. Fuck helmets.

The sun shone, the shorts were on, off I road around the city wearing a T-shirt and a fat shit-eating grin.

Parking up at the "Largest shopping centre in South America [tm]", I nodded at the lads standing by their 125s. They nodded back in an odd way. I only realised what their head movements meant when two gun-totting paramilitary rozzers demanded to know "What the actual fuck do you think you're doing?" - in Spanish, naturally.

"Lo siento," I replied, "jo no como eh-spag-nol."

I gambled the best way forward was to feign complete ignorance of everything.

A tortuous exchange then took place with me speaking Spanish in the way Officer Crabtree speaks French in Allo Allo. It was, from my perspective, equally funny. They didn't get the joke quite so much.

At this point the security guard from the shopping centre came over. He was convinced he could act as translator despite not knowing a single word of English. The cops spoke to him. He then looked at me, repeated exactly what they had said to him (that I fully understood), but VERY LOUDLY. I then repeated my version of gibberish at him. After five minutes, he told them he reckoned I had a problem with my head.

Having convinced them I had "mon documentoes" in "mon house-o", pointing vaguely at some houses on a hillside in a far distance, they realised they had better things to do. I was ordered to go straight home and never ride again without a lid and documents. I bade them a good night and wished them to "via con dias".

The 125 lads looked on amazed. I reckon they were deeply impressed and learnt a lesson in how to talk to the fuzz.

I can't prove that these two coppers were part of the group that carried out a drug bust in the bar I was in around 6 months later...but I'm betting they were. I was having a nice rum in a very low-rent and dangerous barrio bar when they bust in. The nice chaps I was chatting with were in the process of exchanging a fucking huge package of white powder for a stupidly large bag of money. Being foreign, it was naturally assumed that I was part of this wonderful example of free markets in action. I spent 12 hours having the shit kicked out of me in a basement by masked cops who were not as accommodating towards my protestations of not being able to eat Spanish. Neither my wife nor my employer were particularly impressed when I surfaced.

Dan Walsh made a career out of doing that shit!

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Just now, XTreme said:

Dan Walsh made a career out of doing that shit!

I've many other similar stories, but none that involve bikes - especially from when we lived in Colombia. Dealers, exporters, sicarios, los guerrilleros - insanely mad but brilliant times

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4 minutes ago, Mawsley said:

I've many other similar stories, but none that involve bikes - especially from when we lived in Colombia. Dealers, exporters, sicarios, los guerrilleros - insanely mad but brilliant times

Well spill the fucking beans man let's hear it

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Back in the late 80's i had a VFR750 and was having a few problems with it cutting out at random times but it would always get going again, after spending a lot of time trying to find the fault i came to the conclusion it was the CDI but wasn't wiling to spend money i didn't have on something i wasn't 100%sure about so carried on riding it.
Anyhow i was riding down to ogmore when the thing cut out but this time it wouldn't restart. so ended up walking miles to a payphone to phone my mate who then had to hire a van off someone he knew to come and get me. The next day after getting it home i tried to start it but it still didn't want to know so started to strip it down, when i went to remove the tank i though hold on this is light, no it cant be  i put it back on turned the fuel tap to reserve and the fucking thing fired up my mate then told every fucker

 Embarrassed Spongebob Squarepants GIF

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Revving my brothers RD400 at the traffic lights on the high street, couple of girls sitting on a bench infront of the library watching and me trying to impress.
Lights change and I kick the bike forward and bang, forgot to put it in gear.

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Here's one that I bet none of you have ever done? 

When I had my Bonneville one of my mates needed a lift to work, which was a fair bit out of my way. Anyway, I picked him up and we set off onto a short stretch of motorway. The bike started spluttering, so I went to switch it onto reserve........bollocks!! Yep, it was already switched to reserve, I'd forgotten to put it back onto main when I refuelled the last time! Still, we had a nice walk to try to find a filling station and a can to put some fuel in! 😂😂

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