Strangest thing that happened to you on the motorcycle?

a lady asked me to come over after work to help her hang a ceiling fan
i never had been to her house before
as i pulled into her driveway i notice she is in the garage with the door open
i decide to pull all the way up the drive and into the garage
as soon as i turn the bike off she closes the garage door and says
oh good you read my mind
and proceeds to get naked
and then we collided naked on top of the motorcycle for a while
or at least in my mind it was a while

lots of strange things and close calls over the years
but this remains as one of my favorite strange things
especially since I never knew that this was going to happen

I've told the story hundreds of times this is the first time writing it out. Bear with me.
I worked at one of the States largest BMW shop for 9 + years.

We are located next to the freeway West to SF. East to Lake Tahoe.

A Stoplight controlled intersection. The road to the shop runs next to the freeway. At the stop light to turn right to get on the freeway was

Beautiful “two” lane road swooping right uphill “on camber” turn that begs to sling-shot one through a beautiful arc up to another right to enter The over-pass freeway entrance for entering west or eastbound. Now this surface road and stop light are always working hard, a lot of traffic and a quick light to more the traffic.

This Friday 5;30pm off work and I had a clear path to the intersection and the light was “GREEN”.

That day I had my Moto Guzzi Californian. This at the time Had Tonti frame, Which Doctor Tonti built frames for racing for MG. I had changed suspension to Penske ,at the time a good choice and modified valving on the forks, It handled nicely for a cruiser with clearance.

Ok, Iam rolling down the road to see the green light/no traffic I think if not now when? Let's bury this turn. Did I mention I lost my lower right leg 7 years ago? That’s another story.

The Goose did have “floorboards”, Hit the turn going strong in 3rd gear. I’m in the turn drifting out, Iam going to “Fast”, I counter steer more and press hard on right floorboard still going too fast,Iam in the next lane now. I press and step a final time and hear aluminum tearing glance to my right and see my right lower leg flying over my right shoulder “FM”. I don’t crash, I make it to the right side of the overpass and kill the bike, with quick thinking, I kick out the side stand with my left leg and slide of the bike holding on to e Guzzi with my pant leg Blowing in the wind. And my “leg” laying in the intersection. Traffic is abundant, traffic is coming up the hill driving around the leg on both sides. Me waving down the traffic for a little help here.

Lights do a full cycle of all directions, still no help I pull my phone to call the shop for help to get my leg. The traffic light does a full cycle as I said so now a lead head car at the stop light, a “20” something young lady with a short dress and heels Jumps out. She ran to the leg.
She grabbed my leg from the middle of the road and hugs it close toher breasts and runs up the off-ramp,

At this time everyone watching on all 4 corners, Guys yelling “Right ON” out their windows and everyone starts Honking, she gives me the leg back I hug her, she runs back to her car and everything goes back to normal. I limp home thinking

I almost nailed that turn,

True/Joe

Rainy empty Wyoming interstate heading to Sheridan for a beer at the legendary Mint Bar. I was cruising about 125 - 130 and out of nowhere, right in the interstate was a four or five-building town - no signs, no warning, nothing. Parked on the shoulder was a white Ford Bronco. I was through the town in a flash and slowed down to about 95 (this is an extremely rural area). I thought "I am totally screwed" but, time and miles went by, and nothing. So I gradually dialed the speed back up to just north of 100 MPH and started to relax just as blue lights went on way in the distance behind me.

It was the white Bronco that turned out to be an unmarked Wyoming State Trooper. He pulled me over, I put the bike on the kickstand, took off my helmet and gloves, and waited for what I assumed might be handcuffs. An absolutely John Wayne-looking six-foot-four state trooper with a cowboy hat strolled up. "Howdy. I clocked you at anywhere from 95 to 120 MPH, does that sound right?" I looked at him and said "Absolutely" This set him back a bit as I don't think anyone in that much potential trouble admitted to the crime. He said "Ok" and "Wait here" and went back to the Bronco. Fifteen minutes later he came back, said I was free to go and he appreciated my honesty. The last thing he said, was "Boy, that would have been a big ticket - something like a hundred bucks" You gotta love Wyoming.

Or this version using my text asking an AI to write in the style of Motorcycle Journalist Peter Egan:

As I embarked on my rainy expedition along the solitary Wyoming interstate, my ultimate destination set in the lively haven of Sheridan and its fabled Mint Bar, I found myself effortlessly cruising at an exhilarating speed of 125 to 130 miles per hour. Then, as if emerging from the depths of the ethereal plains, a mysterious town materialized right before my eyes—its presence an enigma devoid of any forewarning, bereft of signs or signals. Nestled inconspicuously on the roadside shoulder, a white Ford Bronco lay in stillness, as if observing the ebb and flow of passing travelers.

Without delay, I traversed through the ethereal town in a fleeting moment, but a prudent voice within me urged a reduction in pace to a modest 95 miles per hour, for this was an exceedingly rural expanse. In the face of this unexpected encounter, the weight of impending doom descended upon me, and I silently acknowledged my impending predicament. "I am undoubtedly ensnared," I muttered to myself. Yet, as time and miles rolled by, no calamity befell me. Gradually, I dared to inch the speedometer needle just north of the 100-mile-per-hour mark, cautiously rekindling a sense of ease within my restless spirit.

But alas! The capricious whims of fate had a different plan in store. As my heartbeat settled into the rhythm of the open road, a distant cascade of sapphire radiance burst forth behind me. With measured composure, I steered my vehicle to the side of the road, relinquishing control to the inevitable encounter that awaited me. Gently nestling my bike on its stand, I unfastened my helmet and shed my gloves, bracing myself for the encounter I assumed would culminate in the cold embrace of handcuffs.

To my astonishment, it was an imposing figure—a veritable embodiment of John Wayne's frontier spirit—who emerged from the unassuming white Bronco. Standing tall at a commanding height of six feet and four inches, crowned by a steadfast cowboy hat, the Wyoming State Trooper sauntered toward me with an air of undeniable authority. "Howdy," he greeted, his voice resonating with the timeless essence of the American West. "I've clocked your velocity at an impressive range of 95 to 120 miles per hour. Does that sound about right?"

I met his unwavering gaze with a spirit untethered by falsehood, responding earnestly, "Absolutely." This candid admission seemed to momentarily catch the trooper off guard, for in a realm where the specter of severe penalties loomed large, few would willingly confess to their perceived misdeeds. With a nod of acknowledgment, he uttered a brief "Ok" and bid me to remain stationary as he retreated to the sanctuary of his Bronco, adorned in the cloak of an unmarked presence.

The passage of fifteen minutes elapsed as I anxiously awaited my fate. Finally, the trooper emerged once more, delivering the unexpected verdict that I was free to proceed on my journey. He expressed his gratitude for my unvarnished honesty, a rare virtue in the face of potential retribution. And as if bidding me farewell with a twinkle in his eye, he imparted his parting words, "Boy, that would have been one mighty ticket—something along the lines of a hundred bucks." Ah, Wyoming—a realm where the spirit of the frontier dances unabated amidst the vastness of the plains.

Or in the style of Hunter S. Thompson:


In the midst of a rainy and desolate Wyoming interstate, my course set for Sheridan and the infamous Mint Bar, I found myself hurtling through the void at a reckless speed of 125 to 130 miles per hour. Suddenly, like a hallucination emerging from the ether, a tiny enclave materialized on the interstate—a four or five-building town devoid of signs, devoid of warning. And there, perched nonchalantly on the shoulder, sat a white Ford Bronco, silently observing the mad rush of the highway.

A flash of headlights and I was but a fleeting specter through that peculiar town, the adrenaline coursing through my veins compelling me to decelerate to a modest 95 miles per hour. This, after all, was the epitome of rural isolation, where paranoia wrapped its icy tendrils around the unwary traveler. "I am surely damned," I muttered to myself, bracing for the inevitable reckoning. Yet, time and miles cascaded into the rearview mirror, and nothing. The tension eased its grip on my soul, coaxing me to push the boundaries once more, my speedometer inching just beyond 100 miles per hour, a newfound sense of liberation enveloping my being.

But lo and behold, the capricious wheel of fate turned against me. Just as I began to surrender myself to the rhythmic thrum of the highway, a distant flicker of blue lights pierced the darkness, thrusting me back into the vortex of chaos. Yielding to the authority of the unmarked white Bronco, I gingerly brought my bike to a halt, the metallic clink of the kickstand echoing through the rain-soaked night. I shed my helmet and gloves, preparing for the imminent embrace of cold steel cuffs, as the world narrowed to the approaching figure—a towering six-foot-four state trooper, an embodiment of the archetypal cowboy with his unmistakable Stetson.

"Howdy," he drawled, his voice dripping with Western allure. "I've clocked your velocity anywhere from 95 to 120 miles per hour. Does that strike a chord of truth within your soul?" His gaze bore into mine, unwavering and piercing. Without hesitation, I met his scrutiny head-on and uttered a single word that rattled the foundations of his expectations: "Absolutely." Surprise flickered across his weathered face, for who in their right mind, trapped within the clutches of potential doom, would freely confess their transgressions? "Okay," he mumbled, momentarily lost in the chasm of his thoughts. "Wait here," he instructed, retreating to the confines of his Bronco, an enigmatic sentinel guarding the secrets of the night.

Fifteen minutes of palpable tension passed, the seconds stretching into eternity. Then, like a ghost emerging from the abyss, the trooper reemerged, his countenance altered by a newfound appreciation for candor amidst the vast sea of deceit. "You're free to go," he declared, his words carrying a hint of admiration. "Your honesty is duly noted, stranger." A grin crept across his weathered face, as he added, "**** lucky for you. That ticket would've set you back something fierce—round about a hundred bucks." Ah, the enigmatic realm of Wyoming, where the unforgiving landscape breeds both wild spirits and the capacity for leniency.

Grizzly said:

I had a re-tread come off an 18 wheeler at 80mph on the interstate, went over my wife's head in front of me (she was on her own bike), I got as low as I could on my V-Star 1100, I could feel the rubber brush across my back as it went over....I've also been smacked in the face by some **** throwing a half full 20oz Dr Pepper out the window. God Bless the creators of the full face helmet.

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Almost the same here!! About 7 years ago, jumped on my beloved Kawasaki Concourse 14. Looking to just mess around as the wife was shopping. I hit I-70 as I live in central Ohio. I was in the far left lane and this Ford Aspire blows by me on the right. I see in the distance a bunch of God **** semi tire tread in the middle lane. This all happensd within a few seconds. I go to get over to the far right as I can see this dipshit in the Aspire is going to run directly over the tread. HE had clear lanes on each side. I on the other hand got trapped by a semi to my right. That Aspire kicked up a 4-5 foot section of tread and I saw it coming. All I could do is instinctively crouch as much as I could. That tread took off the entire left side of my bike. Pulled over, ripped off everything that was hanging and nursed it home. Repaired by the dealership, drove it to Florida and sold it. Loved that bike!!! If that tread would have been 2 feet to my right, it would have literally cut me in half. I could see all the steel bands as it was striking the bike. That slow motion stuff when sh*t hits the fan is real! I could strangle that guy in the Ford Aspire to this day!

Last October shortly after buying my new to me 2013 K1600GTL, I took a trip to Atlantic Beach North Carolina normally about a 3-and-a-half-hour ride, but I made it a 5-hour adventure taking backroads. The next day I took Hwy 58 to NC 24 with a plan of exploring some backroads down to Topsail Beach. Just outside of Jacksonville, NC I spotted a 5-gallon bucket spinning in the left lane (much have blown out of the back of a pickup truck) as I approached the bucket it started spinning in the right lane, I swerved into the left lane and the bucket reversed direction hitting my right foot and foot peg. Felt like it broke my foot because the impact left it numb, couldn't feel anything. I kept going because I was afraid if I stopped, I might not be able to get back on the bike. After the numbness wore off, I was in awful pain but able to move all of my toes. It made for a painful and long ride home. All total I have been riding 40 years and have never seen a bucket reverse directions like this one did.