Allegedly, the cops clocked this guy on a motorcycle, and the speeder was doing a purported 205 miles an hour.
Clocked at 205? According to some, it’s true. 205 MPH? For real?
Fastest I can claim, legitimately, on a motorcycle, was “pegging” the speedometer (140 MPH) on a lonely stretch of highway that’s now interstate, many years ago. More realistically, that claim should be tempered with the notation that the speedometer on that model was wildly hopeful, at speeds greater than 100 MPH.
I do remember sitting down in a lonely, cold-water flat, one evening, and working out the measured circumference of the back tire on the little race bike, the various gear ratios, allowing for 7% of slippage and coming up with a raw number of 145 MPH. On a racetrack, the old Texas World Speedway, up on the high bank, the tachometer indicating 8,000 RPM with translated to that 140 or so. But that was a small frame on a real racetrack.
Unrelated:
Today’s the Feast Day of St. Bernardo of Felthe. Patron saint of pawnbrokers, insurance salesmen and bankers.
Work problems?
Imagine if my boss censored what I had to say about her?
Unrelated inbound:
Round a-bout, 9/27/04 3:06 AM, ya’ll said:
> hey, that little fish might not have bit you if had
> bought it dinner before you tried to kiss it. Same rule applies to women,
> generally.
This one tried to bite me, dusk, another “proof of concept” fish (4-inch Watermelon Tiki Stick under a medium Launcher) – and seeing as how it kept the worm? I think that qualifies as dinner.
Still biting.
