I've got a Chrysler story, too.
When I was 12, I wanted a motorbike so much it hurt. I had seen the shiny, wonderful S90 at the newly opened Honda dealer's booth, and I fell in love, although I knew, even at that tender age, it was to be an unrequited love.
My dad finally agreed that he would pay half the price of a used bike, if I paid the other half. Fair enough! I mowed lawns, delivered newspapers, collected soda bottles, etc, and saved up while looking for a bike that met my minimum standards: it had to have the gas tank between your knees instead of under your ass (or pussy, as the case may be) and it had to have a hand clutch.
I hounded the local bike shops at least once a week, until finally a suitable candidate came up. A shop had just taken a C110(?) 50 in on trade, and was asking $100. I had saved about $53 dollars by this time, so I excitedly called my dad, only to have him say "I never said that".
I was so pissed off, I bought a Lil Indian minibike from a schoolmate, whose dad was making him sell after a malfunctioning governor resulted in the bike knocking down the door between the garage and the house. Evidently 10 MPH is excessive in a two car garage.
After giving Nathan my life's savings, I pushed minibike straight to my across-the-street neighbor, a 24 year old hot-rodder, who had the governor sorted in 10 minutes.
A crowd of the neighborhood kids had gathered as I proudly rode my new bike around the front lawn, hoping for a chance to ride it. It wasn't a Honda, but it was MINE.
At one point, I let my older sister take a couple of laps, and when she was handing the bike back to me, twisted the throttle WFO. The mighty mini jumped out from under me, front wheel in the air, dragging me with arms stretched out, chin on the seat, and trying to dig my toes into the grass to slow down. Smack into the left rear fender of my mom's '59 Chrysler New Yorker, leaving a dent about 2 feet high by 18 inches wide by 8 inches deep. I figured I was in deep #$%*, first for buying the bike without permission, and second for caving in the side of my mom's car. After dad came home from work, I did have the foresight to wait until after he had a couple of Scotch and waters before confessing my sins. To my surprise, instead of confiscating the bike or mandating severe punishment, he told me to get the keys from my mom to open the trunk, then climb in and kick the dent out.
Oh, almost forgot: we clocked that minibike at 40MPH once, fully tucked in with my knees firmly clamped against the forks to dampen the speed wobble.
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