The knob sticking out of my lower back is owed to one of my favorite bikes ever, the trim little Yamaha SRX600S, a kick-only single graced with the voice of G-d on the third day of a celestial bronchitis attack. More accurately, my fractured and dislocated transverse process is owed to the Chevy S-10 that yanked out from a line of stopped traffic just in time to slap the bike down like a shuttlecock. I picked up the Yammie, rode her home, and limped around with a sore back for a couple of weeks. The fracture wasn’t diagnosed until years later. Youth is the best drug.