Several years ago there was this guy that used to hang out at a private bar near Raleigh. He was a total dweeb, but was nice enough. He was one of those guys that always wants to talk about bikes at every freaking chance, as if there's nothing
else in the world, and he would prattle on about cams and exhausts and other stuff he read about in his latest issue of "Easy Riders." He could get pretty annoying, but he was so enthusiastic and goofy you couldn't help but like him a bit.
Anyway, I guess he had some serious coins because he'd always been riding a metric cruiser of some sort, but one evening he showed up on a custom built Captain America replica. It was awesome! I'm no expert on the movie, (never seen the whole thing, end to end,) and no Panhead expert, but this bike looked to be VERY well done. It was an original Pan case, I remember that, and as far as I could see everything was done right and done well, with no cheap crap parts that I could see. (On the outside, anyway.)
The guy was proud as a peacock, and enjoyed all the attention. Good for him. But the night went on and got colder, and all fun things must come to an end, and gradually the place started to thin out. Cap'n America proudly went out to his bike, straddled the saddle, and kicked it over. And kicked it over. And kicked it. Kicked. Fussed with the throttle. Kicked. KICKED!
He walked back over to the edge of the deck and stood looking around for a minute at all of the tables. Then he walks up to our table and approaches the oldest, grizzliest looking guy there. The guy with the long grey beard, the arms covered in tattoos, the patches on all sides of his vest, and the pony-tail down to the middle of his back. He smiles sheepishly and says, "I can't seem to get my bike to start. Do you think you could help me out? I'll buy you a beer?"
How can you not like a fellow like that?