She does something in third gear. She taunts me. She's the mistress, and I'm the slave.
Wind me out.
Yes, mistress.
Come on! Wind me out!
I'm trying!
Come on, you miserable worm! Try harder!
Her accent, of course, is pure Sarf London.
The acceleration is incredible. And it just won't stop. No matter how I try, I can't get to the top of third gear. Fourth always beckons, a warm, comfortable place where the taunting stops, the mistress is placated.
I don't even dare to try and see what kind of mistress fourth gear is. We'll stay on polite nodding terms. No offer of service forthcoming from me. No demands from her.
I do know that at 65 mph, I've got a whole lot of throttle left, maybe 4500 rpm, and the mistress purrs like a kitten.
6 comments:
Jeez Ned, imagine the damage you could do to a stationary target with a pair of nunchucks (sp?) at 65 mph!
Are those Courreges boots?
What happened to the Triumph? Are you movin' on up to the Snortin' Norton?
Linkmeister: They'd have to have a lot of Courrege to run away from those feet.
Roger: Sometimes you have to knuckle under and accept the inevitable fact that when you're doing a Google Image Search for a hot Sixties babe on a British motorbike, the exact make and model of your own ride may not come springing to the top.
Oh, c'mon. And you don't know how to use Photoshop?
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