I haven’t thought of this incident in nearly 30 years. The old heart still beats a bit faster as I relate it.
Minding my business while riding my R90 through a neighborhood when three jerks in a brand new (1975) Triumph Spitfire convertible (one was sitting on the folded top between the seats) approached head-on. The driver suddenly steered toward me to force me into a parked car. I successfully dodged both and ended up in someone's yard. They stopped and laughed at me. Being very young, I saw nothing but red.
After recovering the bike, I gave chase. Since it was three against one, I guess they figured I was no real threat to them. They started alternating between hard acceleration and slamming on the brakes. The guy sitting on the boot was looking back at me and laughing like the girl in the story that sparked this memory.
I finally got the timing correct as the driver hit the brakes. By swerving left, I came up even with his door only inches away. We both stopped completely. The guy on the boot hit my helmet with his fist or palm while christening me with some really choice names. I was really mad, but what to do?
Someone once told me that when out numbered, your best chance of survival is to grab one of them and, no matter what happens, don't stop hitting him. If you do enough damage, the others may back off. So that lone still-functioning brain cell said, get the driver and don't let go.
As I put my side stand down, I hit the driver, grabbed his shirt, and then fell backward, dragging him and most of his shirt out of the car and over my now-parked Beemer. Both passengers were up in a flash and jumped on the pile.
I rolled over on top and proceeded to wail on that driver like there was no tomorrow. The other two were spending most of their effort trying to get the helmet off my head or trying to hold my arms back to keep me from hitting their buddy. However, I managed to continue hitting him with helmet, fist, elbow, knee, whatever, every chance I got. They finally called a truce as the driver was really getting the short end of the stick.
Under the truce, I let go of the driver and started to get on my bike. One of the passengers kicked me in the supporting leg and I dropped the bike on its left cylinder (no harm done). Now I was all riled up again, but had no target as they were keeping their distance. I tried to pick up my bike again and got another swift kick in the back of the legs.
Then the evil smart cell kicked in again. Ignoring the third kick to my butt, I successfully picked up the bike by the gas tank and over- rotated it into the brand new car. My right cylinder made a very satisfying dent in the driver's door. Happy with my new-found target, I caught the bike (by the tank) as it bounced off the door and gave it another heave. This was repeated a few more times before the 3 stooges decided flight was their best option. As they drove away, I heard one of them yelling 'my father is a lawyer and we are going get the cops on you...'
With that statement ringing in my head, I went home, called the police and relayed the story. Out came a squad car with two huge guys. Guess they thought the fight was still on. Suspecting a really dumb prank, first thing they said was, 'three against one? Son you don't have a mark on you. How did you manage that?' I pointed to the helmet, leather jacket, boots and gloves. They just laughed and headed for their squad car.
Worried that no report was being written, I asked them what happens if these guys report it. It is the word of three against one. The cops laughed again and said ‘everyone at the station is going to hear about this one. If those frat boys haven't learned yet that those odds aren't good enough, we'll just have to show them the error of their ways. BTW, nice wheels.'
I could not believe all this transpired in about a 30 minute period. Then as the adrenaline wore off, I realized how stupid and lucky I was. Only one good brain cell was working and I survived.
I figured that I got even for a lot of motorcyclists that day, but may have used up any good karma I may have had. So ever since, concerned that payback was around the corner, at the first sign of trouble on the road, I have run like heck. And that has worked well, too!
About three weeks later, I saw that car on the college campus. Man was that door destroyed! Not a scratch on the Beemer’s valve cover, though.
Now, I hope my telling about this does not bring back any bad luck. Just wanted you guys to hear a story where the motorcyclist won and leave it at that. But I assure you, winning does not make the fear and anger go away. You still have to deal with both emotions.