In 1973 a friend of mine (Bruce) had a 750 triple that he kept taking apart and raising the ports and compression a little at a time. By August that year, he was 'happy' with it. He was the only guy who could ride it: he could actually snap out with his hand and catch a fly on the Parts Counter between his thumb and forefinger, he was that 'quick', and he needed it for the bike. One night I was at the Dairy Queen and he rode by and waved, snapped the throttle, piroet'ed the big Triple 180 degrees on the back wheel and rode back up the [busy!] main drag. A few minutes later he came back by and pulled over to talk: I asked him how the heck he did that with the bike and he just said, "It wasn't me: it does stuff like that all the time by itself!" He had powered it well past the frame's ability to hold it together. He had to push it away from every stop sign with 2 feet, it had so little low-end torque left, but it could spin over 9000 RPM.
About a month later (September) I was driving my El Camino up the interstate to Chicago and heard a familiar "beep-beep" coming up behind me (I was doing 80 MPH), and here comes Bruce on Blue, up on the rear wheel, cruising past me on the left. He rode up like that for the next 5 miles that I could see him, passing cars, changing lanes, like he was on a trials bike at 90+ MPH. Good rider!
