Hobo Jungle
Virgin Visitor??
Take it easy on me guys...
This is my first post on the Jungle
San invited me over to check things out...
Marty - Very sorry to hear about your loss.....
I am on Little Person duty today - was able to hang around the house
today with Jonathan - so I told the wife to do what she wanted today...
OF COURSE...
I am going to a train show on saturday and sunday
Joe S.
This is my first post on the Jungle
San invited me over to check things out...
Marty - Very sorry to hear about your loss.....
I am on Little Person duty today - was able to hang around the house
today with Jonathan - so I told the wife to do what she wanted today...
OF COURSE...
I am going to a train show on saturday and sunday
Joe S.
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San Diegan
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penncentral8885
- Posts: 3012
- Joined: Wed Aug 17, 2005 10:09 pm
- Location: Indiana
Jon;building 3 huh?,I've been putting command in a Conrail SD20 for my son,got her finished,,runs and sounds good!
http://www.indianarailwaymuseum.org/
Turn to the dark side!,,,,Penn Central 1968-1976
"from there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.",,,,,Dr. Seuss
Turn to the dark side!,,,,Penn Central 1968-1976
"from there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere.",,,,,Dr. Seuss
Let the games begin, eh?
As Cody lined up on the grid for the warm-up lap before Sunday’s race, he realized he couldn’t have Brad hanging out in the pits any longer. It was simply too distracting. He didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings, but here he was thinking about him when all his concentration had to be on racing. He saw the back of Jaxs’ leathers in front by three rows. Jaxs had been confused by Brad’s presence, and maybe he had a point. Some guys understood stuff, some didn’t. Brad was one of those silver-spoon types who was most likely never going to get it.
The flag man withdrew the red with his practiced sweep, and the field accelerated as a blind herd toward the first corner, thinning into single file as the darted into the chicane. Cody warmed up his slicks as he maintained his position in the line of racers, then charged the straight into the hairpin, up the slight hill through three gears, back down into the Bowl and upwards again toward the fast Ss at the crest of the rise.
As the bikes lined up again for the start, Cody decided that today he had to go for it, battered arm or not. He was sick of placing toward the back of the field; today he wanted to be in the front six. It was a lot to ask from his old machine, but fock it. He brought the revs up, the dual exhaust bellowing, watched the starter’s hand move down with the green flag, released the clutch and felt the bike lift slightly as it rocketed forward, the sound of thirty engines at full scream a vibration through his body. But instead of gaining positions, he lost two, passed by faster accelerating bikes. He dove toward the apex of turn one, twisted the throttle early half way through the corner and felt the rear tire slide.
Sometimes when he rode, there would be an instant of nothingness. A blink of time where everything was simply not there; then it would all torrent back, an angry slap of reality like the sensation of surfacing from a faint. It didn’t happen often, but it always frightened him. How could a brain concentrating so fiercely do that? But sometimes he experienced other moments that nothing in his life had ever rivaled. He’d be traveling down a straight, his body buffeted by the wind and speed, his every muscle connected to the bike as if the hot oil was running through his veins, mixing with his blood, his eyes sensing it all—blurred pavement, hunched riders in front of him, faces in the stands, the distant hills in warm light, the two cylinders pounding in rhythm with his heart—and he’d feel a shiver of nirvanic calm as if everything was perfect sense and he was living the exact right moment at the exact pitch of joy. That made it all worth it.
At turn seven he slipped his bike under another rider’s, holding his tires to the few remaining inches of pavement, his knee pad brushing the curbing, his shoulder almost touching the other racer. The pass exhilarated him further, and he gunned toward the chicane leading onto the main straight. He was riding at the limit. That was all he could expect from himself. Accelerating early out of the last corner, he snapped the shifter up through three gears, the bike now reaching close to a hundred and forty miles an hour. He charged toward turn one, forcing himself to wait until the final instant to brake no matter what his instincts demanded, no matter what had happened yesterday. Now! He fingered the lever tightly, the abrupt deceleration lunging his body forward into the gas tank, his left arm unable to hold him up. As he dropped the bike into the corner, he knew the front tire wasn’t going to hold; he was going to high-side. There was nothing to do but pray he didn’t fall too awkwardly. It was contact with the bike in a crash that did the most damage. If you could get your body away from the tumbling metal, you were usually okay. If only his hand wasn’t taped to the damn grip.
As Cody lined up on the grid for the warm-up lap before Sunday’s race, he realized he couldn’t have Brad hanging out in the pits any longer. It was simply too distracting. He didn’t want to hurt the guy’s feelings, but here he was thinking about him when all his concentration had to be on racing. He saw the back of Jaxs’ leathers in front by three rows. Jaxs had been confused by Brad’s presence, and maybe he had a point. Some guys understood stuff, some didn’t. Brad was one of those silver-spoon types who was most likely never going to get it.
The flag man withdrew the red with his practiced sweep, and the field accelerated as a blind herd toward the first corner, thinning into single file as the darted into the chicane. Cody warmed up his slicks as he maintained his position in the line of racers, then charged the straight into the hairpin, up the slight hill through three gears, back down into the Bowl and upwards again toward the fast Ss at the crest of the rise.
As the bikes lined up again for the start, Cody decided that today he had to go for it, battered arm or not. He was sick of placing toward the back of the field; today he wanted to be in the front six. It was a lot to ask from his old machine, but fock it. He brought the revs up, the dual exhaust bellowing, watched the starter’s hand move down with the green flag, released the clutch and felt the bike lift slightly as it rocketed forward, the sound of thirty engines at full scream a vibration through his body. But instead of gaining positions, he lost two, passed by faster accelerating bikes. He dove toward the apex of turn one, twisted the throttle early half way through the corner and felt the rear tire slide.
Sometimes when he rode, there would be an instant of nothingness. A blink of time where everything was simply not there; then it would all torrent back, an angry slap of reality like the sensation of surfacing from a faint. It didn’t happen often, but it always frightened him. How could a brain concentrating so fiercely do that? But sometimes he experienced other moments that nothing in his life had ever rivaled. He’d be traveling down a straight, his body buffeted by the wind and speed, his every muscle connected to the bike as if the hot oil was running through his veins, mixing with his blood, his eyes sensing it all—blurred pavement, hunched riders in front of him, faces in the stands, the distant hills in warm light, the two cylinders pounding in rhythm with his heart—and he’d feel a shiver of nirvanic calm as if everything was perfect sense and he was living the exact right moment at the exact pitch of joy. That made it all worth it.
At turn seven he slipped his bike under another rider’s, holding his tires to the few remaining inches of pavement, his knee pad brushing the curbing, his shoulder almost touching the other racer. The pass exhilarated him further, and he gunned toward the chicane leading onto the main straight. He was riding at the limit. That was all he could expect from himself. Accelerating early out of the last corner, he snapped the shifter up through three gears, the bike now reaching close to a hundred and forty miles an hour. He charged toward turn one, forcing himself to wait until the final instant to brake no matter what his instincts demanded, no matter what had happened yesterday. Now! He fingered the lever tightly, the abrupt deceleration lunging his body forward into the gas tank, his left arm unable to hold him up. As he dropped the bike into the corner, he knew the front tire wasn’t going to hold; he was going to high-side. There was nothing to do but pray he didn’t fall too awkwardly. It was contact with the bike in a crash that did the most damage. If you could get your body away from the tumbling metal, you were usually okay. If only his hand wasn’t taped to the damn grip.
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San Diegan
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