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Dale Keeseker from Kansas
City pulled onto my hotel parking lot with a red
Terry Prince framed Vincent, an Egli framed
Vincent, and a Norvin. He has been known to scout
the English countryside poling about in garden
sheds in search of a rusty relic awaiting
restoration by his skilled hand. Never wanting to
disappoint an enthusiast, he fired this bad boy up
for me in the parking lot. I cried. And then he
told me he was a pig farmer. I cried
again.
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He races, he rides, he
organizes rallies for his patrons, he gives out
free stickers, and he is one aggressive caffeine
junkie on the race track. Scott Johnson, number 132
and owner of the Fuel Cafe in Milwaukee, is about
to motor around another Honda in the Sportsman 350
Class. Everybody go to Milwaukee, buy some coffee
and a t-shirt at the Fuel Cafe and then get the
hell out of there.
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Is that a Moto-Guzzi?
Yes...
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Ducati 1965 Monza with a
sticker on the fender that reads, "I'm so far
behind, I think I'm first." Owned by a husband and
wife team...the husband wrenches and the wife
races.
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See this? So did I...Norton
Commando side panels converted into copper
glittered alarm clocks. I was torn between crying
and laughing.
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Henry Wheaton, now 66 years
old, made a deal with his wife. She would serve as
his pit crew until he reached 70 if he avoided
bodily harm. Last season the transmission on this
1940 suicide hand shift froze at 100 mph and tossed
him into retirement. After suffering from a
concussion, broken bones, and a lot of time in the
garage with a 20 ton press wrenching apart the
welded tranny, Henry still attends the meets in
racing form awaiting a change of heart from the
wife. I recommended he get her drunk.
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