Zwaaien naar een chopper op een sportfiets

Voor de TS. Ik kon het topic even niet meer vinden waar de verhalen in stonden

Veel plezier met lezen _O-

De geschiedenis van de motorgroet
De oorsprong van de motorrijdersgroet ligt in het stenen tijdperk.
Er waren toen maar heel weinig motorrijders. Er waren nauwelijks verharde wegen en de wielen waren van steen.
Alleen echte bikkels verdroegen de ongemakken van het motorrijden.
Wanneer twee zulke bikkels elkaar tegenkwamen, stopten ze, stapten af en lieten elkaar de geopende hand zien, om zo te bewijzen dat ze er geen vuistbijl in hadden verborgen. Zo is de motorrijdersgroet ontstaan.

Winterrijders en softies (ook wel mietjes genaamd).
Onder dezelfde moeilijke omstandigheden zijn op de dag van vandaag nog de winterrijders onderweg.
Motorrijders zijn ofwel winterrijders of softies.
Softies kom je in April in het kantoor van de verzekeringsmaatschappij tegen, waar ze hun afgemelde bike weer aanmelden.
Winterrijders daarentegen rijden door. Hun aantal is gering.
Als twee winterrijders elkaar tegenkomen zijn ze heel blij en groeten. Vanaf April groeten winterrijders niet meer. Want winterrijders groeten geen softies.
Softies herken je daaraan, dat ze in de eerste weken van de lente wild en met twee handen alles groeten wat zich op twee wielen voortbeweegt.
Ze zijn zo opgewonden, dat ze vergeten dat iets verderop een bocht ligt.
Ze hebben altijd schoon ondergoed aan - je zou eventueel in het hospitaal kunnen belanden.

De verboden groet.
Het groeten door motorrijders is aan strenge regels gebonden en wordt door beginnelingen terecht als uiterst ingewikkeld ervaren.
Het is omgeven door allerlei geboden en verboden.
Het bekendste verbod luidt als volgt:
Groet nooit een tweewieler die minder als 250 cc cilinderinhoud heeft.
Zoiets is geen motor.
Wie uit nonchalance scooters of lichte motoren groet, staat voor schut en verliest zijn zelfrespect.

Een aparte categorie: Oldtimers.
Oldtimers worden in principe vriendelijk en vol bewondering gegroet ongeacht de cilinderinhoud.
Oldtimers worden meestal door technisch begaafde oudere heren bereden, de zogenaamde ouwe techneuten.
Die worden met respect behandeld. Kom je een ouwe techneut tegen, wacht je af of hij groet.
Vanaf de lente tot de herfst groeten velen niet omdat het winterrijders zijn - en winterrijders groeten geen softies.

Het groeten op de autosnelweg.
Niet geregeld en daarom eigenlijk niet bestaand is de cultuur van motorrijdersgroet op de autosnelweg.
Zelfs zeer ervaren motorrijders kunnen niet zeggen of men tegemoetkomende motorrijders over zes rijstroken en de middenberm heen, groeten moet.
Rij-technisch wordt het groeten een probleem bij het inhalen.
De klassieke linkerhand wordt door degene die ingehaald wordt, niet gezien. Groet je met de linkerhand voor het lichaam langs naar rechts, denken automobilisten dat je last hebt van een zwerm sprinkhanen of kramp in de onderarm.

De "Rossi-groet".
De "Rossi-groet" (zo plat mogelijk op z'n kant, een knie raakt het asfalt) geldt als zijnde zéér riskant.
In het algemeen wordt hij als bewijs van extreme stuurkunst gezien, maar het is aan te raden in ieder geval van tevoren schoon ondergoed aan te trekken (zie boven).
"Rossi-groet"-rijders rijden uitsluitend op het buitenste profiel en vergelijken met elkaar wie de scherpst afgesleten voetsteunen heeft.
Wie de kunst van de "Rossi-groet" niet beheerst en hem toch uitvoert, riskeert zijn allerlaatste, de zogenaamde "Gouden Groet".

Redenen waarom Harley-rijders niet teruggroeten.
1. De garantie vervalt als hij een niet Amerikaans product groet.
2. Met het dikke leer en de nieten krijgt hij zijn arm niet omhoog.
3. Hij groet uit principe geen rijders, die hun bike al geheel hebben betaald.
4. Hij is bang dat zijn stuur eraf trilt als hij het loslaat.
5. De rijwind zou de nieuwe tatoeages eraf kunnen blazen.
6. Hij heeft een eeuwigheid nodig om aansluitend, vanwege de vibraties zijn handvat weer terug te vinden.
7. Hij kan niet onderscheiden of de ander groet of zijn oren dichthoudt.
8. Hij heeft vanwege de vibraties klittenband tussen handvat en zijn handschoen.
9. Hij heeft zojuist in het economisch gedeelte van de krant gelezen, dat Honda voor 60% participeert in Harley.
10.Sedert de openbare verkoop van zijn vorige Harley haat hij alle mensen die een hand opsteken.
11.Zijn Bangkok-Rolex zou nat kunnen worden.
12.De linkerhelft van zijn stuur zou gejat kunnen worden.
13.De linkerhelft van zijn stuur werd reeds gejat en nu houdt hij zich aan de kilometerteller vast.
14.Hij houdt met zijn linkerhand zijn rechterspiegel vast om te voorkomen dat die er af trilt.
15.Hij heeft twee handen nodig om met zijn vingers de volgende afbetaling na te tellen.
16.Hij poetst net zijn chromen luchtfilterdeksel.
17.Als hij maar met één hand zijn stuur vasthoudt gaat ie op z'n bek.

Redenen waarom rijders van een Gold Wing niet groeten.
1. Volgens het Honda-instructieboekje mag hij zijn stuur pas loslaten
als de bike stilstaat, de sleutel uit het contactslot is getrokken,
de middenbok is uitgeklapt en de radio uitgeschakeld is.
2. Op het instrumentenpaneel is geen knop voor "automatisch terugzwaaien"aanwezig.
3. Hij is net ingedut.
4. Hij krijgt zijn arm wegens ouderdomsklachten niet meer omhoog.
5. Hij heeft via zijn handy een conferentieschakeling met zijn brooker en de ING-bank.
6. 't Vrouwtje heeft hem verboden vreemden te groeten.
7. Hij is net bezig alle lampjes van zijn "kerstboom" te tellen.
8. Hij sorteert op dit moment zijn CD verzameling.
9. De hand voor de antenne stoort de Tv-ontvangst.
10.Hij ruimt net de vaatwasser in.
11.Vanwege zijn Alzheimer weet hij aansluitend niet meer waar hij zijn hand moet laten.
12.Hij vindt aansluitend tussen alle knopjes, lampjes, schakelaars en hendeltjes zijn stuur niet meer.
13.Hij verwisselt juist de batterij van zijn pacemaker.
14.Hij zoekt net in zijn boordcomputer, wat "opgestoken hand van een vreemde motorrijder" betekent.
15.Hij groet wel altijd, maar vanwege de troep rond zijn stuur ziet niemand zijn hand.



-----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Wave
By Tom Ruttan
CYCLE CANADA - APRIL 2002

The bike's passenger seat swept up just enough that I could see over my father's shoulders. That seat was my throne. My dad and I travelled many backroads, searching for the ones we had never found before. Travelling these roads just to see where they went. Never in a rush. Just be home for supper.

I remember wandering down a backroad with my father, sitting on my throne watching the trees whiz by, feeling the rumble of our bike beneath us like a contented giant cat. A motorcycle came over a hill
toward us and as it went by, my father threw up his gloved clutch hand and gave a little wave. The other biker waved back with the same friendly swing of his left wrist.

I tapped my father on his shoulder, which was our signal that I wanted to say something. He cocked his helmeted ear back slightly while keeping his eyes ahead.

I yelled, "Do we know him?"

'What?" he shouted.

"You waved to him. Who was it?"

"I don't know. Just another guy on a bike. So I waved."

"How come?"

"You just do. It's important."

Later, when we had stopped for chocolate ice cream, I asked why it was important to wave to other bikers. My father tried to explain how the wave demonstrated comradeship and a mutual understanding of what it was to enjoy riding a motorcycle. He looked for the words to describe how almost all bikers struggled with the same things like cold, rain, heat, car drivers who did not see them, but how riding remained an almost pure pleasure.

I was young then and I am not sure that I really understood what he was trying to get across, but it was a beginning. Afterward, I always waved along with my father when we passed other bikers.

I remember one cold October morning when the clouds were heavy and dark, giving us another clue that winter was riding in from just over the horizon. My father and I were warm inside our car as we headed to a friend's home. Rounding a comer, we saw a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of the road. Past the bike, we saw the rider walking through the ditch, scouring the long grasses crowned with a touch of frost. We pulled over and backed up to where the bike stood.

I asked Dad, "Who's that?"

"Don't know," he replied. "But he seems to have lost something. Maybe we can give him a hand."

We left the car and wandered through the tall grass of the ditch to the biker. He said that he had been pulling on his gloves as he rode and he had lost one. The three of us spent some time combing the ditch, but all we found were two empty cans and a plastic water bottle.

My father turned and headed back to our car and I followed him. He opened the trunk and threw the cans and the water bottle into a small cardboard box that we kept for garbage. He rummaged through various tools, oil containers and windshield washer fluid until he found an old crumpled pair of brown leather gloves. Dad straightened them out and handed them to me to hold. He continued looking until he located an old catalogue. I understood why my dad had grabbed the gloves. I had no idea what he was going to do with the catalogue. We headed back to the biker who was still walking the ditch.

My dad said, "Here's some gloves for you. And I brought you a catalogue as well."

"Thanks," he replied. I really appreciate it." He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a worn black wallet.

"Let me give you some money for the gloves," he said as he slid some bills out.

"No thanks," my dad replied as I handed the rider the gloves. "They're old and not worth anything anyway."

The biker smiled. "Thanks a lot." He pulled on the old gloves and then he unzipped his jacket. I watched as my father handed him the catalogue and the biker slipped it inside his coat. He jostled his jacket around to get the catalogue sitting high and centered under his coat and zipped it up. I remember nodding my head at the time, finally making sense of why my dad had given him the catalogue. It would keep him a bit warmer. After wishing the biker well, my father and I left him warming up his bike.

Two weeks later, the biker came to our home and returned my father's gloves. He had found our address on the catalogue. Neither my father nor the biker seemed to think that my father stopping at the side of the road for a stranger and giving him a pair of gloves, and that stranger making sure that the gloves were returned, were events at all out of the ordinary for people who rode motorcycles. For me, it was another subtle lesson.

It was spring the next year when I was sitting high on my throne, watching the farm fields slip by when I saw two bikes coming towards us. As they rumbled past, both my father and I waved, but the other bikers kept their sunglasses locked straight ahead and did not acknowledge us. I remember thinking that they must have seen us because our waves were too obvious to miss. Why hadn't they waved back? I thought all bikers waved to one another.

I patted my father on his shoulder and yelled, "How come they didn't wave to us?"

"Don't know. Sometimes they don't."

I remember feeling very puzzled. Why wouldn't someone wave back?

Later that summer, I turned 12 and learned how to ride a bike with a clutch.

I spent many afternoons on a country laneway beside our home, kicking and kicking to start my father's '55 BSA. When it would finally sputter to a start, my concentration would grow to a sharp focus as I tried to let out the clutch slowly while marrying it with just enough throttle to bring me to a smooth takeoff. More often, I lurched and stumbled forward while trying to keep the front wheel straight and remember to pick my feet up. A few feet farther down the lane, I would sigh and begin kicking again.

A couple of years later, my older brother began road racing, and I became a racetrack rat. We spent many weekends wandering to several tracks in Ontario-Harewood, Mosport and eventually Shannonville. These were the early years of two-stroke domination, of Kawasaki green and 750 two-stroke triples, of Yvon Duhamel's cat-and-mouse games and the artistry of Steve Baker.

Eventually, I started to pursue interests other than the race track. I got my motorcycle licence and began wandering the backroads on my own. I found myself stopping along sideroads if I saw a rider sitting alone, just checking to see if I could be of help. And I continued to wave to each biker I saw.

But I remained confused as to why some riders never waved back. It left me with almost a feeling of rejection, as if I were reaching to shake someone's hand but they kept their arm hanging by their side.

I began to canvass my friends about waving. I talked with people I met at bike events, asking what they thought. Most of the riders told me they waved to other motorcyclists and often initiated the friendly air handshake as they passed one another.

I did meet some riders, though, who told me that they did not wave to other riders because they felt that they were different from other bikers. They felt that they were "a breed apart." One guy told me in colourful language that he did not "wave to no wusses.'' He went on to say that his kind of bikers were tough, independent, and they did not require or want the help of anyone, whether they rode a bike or not.

I suspected that there were some people who bought a bike because they wanted to purchase an image of being tougher, more independent, a not-putting-up-with-anyone's-crap kind of person, but I did not think that this was typical of most riders.

People buy bikes for different reasons. Some will be quick to tell you what make it is, how much they paid for it, or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty is going to be strong for some people whether they have a Harley, Ford, Sony, Nike or whatever. Some people want to buy an image and try to purchase another person's perception of them. But it can't be done. They hope that it can, but it can't.

Still, there is a group of people who ride bikes who truly are a "breed apart." They appreciate both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride. Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define themselves to themselves alone.

They don't care what other people think. They don't care if anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it will go. The bike means something to them that nothing else does. They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don't care whether anyone knows they have a
bike. They may not be able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they still know. They might not be able to explain what it means to feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them. But they understand.

These are the riders who park their bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and look back. They see something when they look at their bikes that you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They
see a part of themselves.

These are the riders who understand why they wave to other motorcyclists. They savour the wave. It symbolizes the connection between riders, and if they saw you and your bike on the side of the road, they would stop to help and might not ask your name. They understand what you are up against every time you take your bike on the road-the drivers that do not see you, the ones that cut you off or tailgate you, the potholes that hide in wait. The rain. The cold.

I have been shivering and sweating on a bike for more than 40 years. Most of the riders that pass give me a supportive wave. I love it when I see a younger rider on a "crotch rocket" scream past me and wave. New riders carrying on traditions.

And I will continue in my attempts to get every biker just a little closer to one another with a simple wave of my gloved clutch hand. And if they do not wave back when I extend my hand into the breeze as I pass them, I will smile a little more. They may be a little mistaken about just who is a "breed apart."



oja en :W *O* :W
 
:W

Trouwens, als je zwaaien in de search had gezet was je nogal wat zwaaitopics tegengekomen :W

Maar evengoed blijven zwaaien en wie niet terugzwaait geef je maar een kleine zwaaiende vinger :+
 
Naar alles :W

Voor meer info:
http://cool.weebl.nl/bikewaves.wmv (http<img src="/styles/motor-forum/smilies/nosmile.gif" class="smilie" loading="lazy" alt=":/" title="Nosmile :/" data-shortname=":/" />/cool.weebl.nl/bikewaves.wmv)

:)
 
Redenen waarom rijders van een Gold Wing niet groeten.
Volgens het Honda-instructieboekje mag hij zijn stuur pas loslaten
als de bike stilstaat, de sleutel uit het contactslot is getrokken,
de middenbok is uitgeklapt en de radio uitgeschakeld is.
De hand voor de antenne stoort de Tv-ontvangst.
Hij ruimt net de vaatwasser in.
_O-
 
wanneer komt nou iemand met dat verhaal van dat amerikaanse jochie dat aan zijn pappa vraagt waarom die lui sweaien?
Dit verhaal bedoel je?
The Wave
By Tom Ruttan
CYCLE CANADA - APRIL 2002

The bike's passenger seat swept up just enough that I could see over my father's shoulders. That seat was my throne. My dad and I travelled many backroads, searching for the ones we had never found before. Travelling these roads just to see where they went. Never in a rush. Just be home for supper.

I remember wandering down a backroad with my father, sitting on my throne watching the trees whiz by, feeling the rumble of our bike beneath us like a contented giant cat. A motorcycle came over a hill
toward us and as it went by, my father threw up his gloved clutch hand and gave a little wave. The other biker waved back with the same friendly swing of his left wrist.

I tapped my father on his shoulder, which was our signal that I wanted to say something. He cocked his helmeted ear back slightly while keeping his eyes ahead.

I yelled, "Do we know him?"

'What?" he shouted.

"You waved to him. Who was it?"

"I don't know. Just another guy on a bike. So I waved."

"How come?"

"You just do. It's important."

Later, when we had stopped for chocolate ice cream, I asked why it was important to wave to other bikers. My father tried to explain how the wave demonstrated comradeship and a mutual understanding of what it was to enjoy riding a motorcycle. He looked for the words to describe how almost all bikers struggled with the same things like cold, rain, heat, car drivers who did not see them, but how riding remained an almost pure pleasure.

I was young then and I am not sure that I really understood what he was trying to get across, but it was a beginning. Afterward, I always waved along with my father when we passed other bikers.

I remember one cold October morning when the clouds were heavy and dark, giving us another clue that winter was riding in from just over the horizon. My father and I were warm inside our car as we headed to a friend's home. Rounding a comer, we saw a motorcycle parked on the shoulder of the road. Past the bike, we saw the rider walking through the ditch, scouring the long grasses crowned with a touch of frost. We pulled over and backed up to where the bike stood.

I asked Dad, "Who's that?"

"Don't know," he replied. "But he seems to have lost something. Maybe we can give him a hand."

We left the car and wandered through the tall grass of the ditch to the biker. He said that he had been pulling on his gloves as he rode and he had lost one. The three of us spent some time combing the ditch, but all we found were two empty cans and a plastic water bottle.

My father turned and headed back to our car and I followed him. He opened the trunk and threw the cans and the water bottle into a small cardboard box that we kept for garbage. He rummaged through various tools, oil containers and windshield washer fluid until he found an old crumpled pair of brown leather gloves. Dad straightened them out and handed them to me to hold. He continued looking until he located an old catalogue. I understood why my dad had grabbed the gloves. I had no idea what he was going to do with the catalogue. We headed back to the biker who was still walking the ditch.

My dad said, "Here's some gloves for you. And I brought you a catalogue as well."

"Thanks," he replied. I really appreciate it." He reached into his hip pocket and withdrew a worn black wallet.

"Let me give you some money for the gloves," he said as he slid some bills out.

"No thanks," my dad replied as I handed the rider the gloves. "They're old and not worth anything anyway."

The biker smiled. "Thanks a lot." He pulled on the old gloves and then he unzipped his jacket. I watched as my father handed him the catalogue and the biker slipped it inside his coat. He jostled his jacket around to get the catalogue sitting high and centered under his coat and zipped it up. I remember nodding my head at the time, finally making sense of why my dad had given him the catalogue. It would keep him a bit warmer. After wishing the biker well, my father and I left him warming up his bike.

Two weeks later, the biker came to our home and returned my father's gloves. He had found our address on the catalogue. Neither my father nor the biker seemed to think that my father stopping at the side of the road for a stranger and giving him a pair of gloves, and that stranger making sure that the gloves were returned, were events at all out of the ordinary for people who rode motorcycles. For me, it was another subtle lesson.

It was spring the next year when I was sitting high on my throne, watching the farm fields slip by when I saw two bikes coming towards us. As they rumbled past, both my father and I waved, but the other bikers kept their sunglasses locked straight ahead and did not acknowledge us. I remember thinking that they must have seen us because our waves were too obvious to miss. Why hadn't they waved back? I thought all bikers waved to one another.

I patted my father on his shoulder and yelled, "How come they didn't wave to us?"

"Don't know. Sometimes they don't."

I remember feeling very puzzled. Why wouldn't someone wave back?

Later that summer, I turned 12 and learned how to ride a bike with a clutch.

I spent many afternoons on a country laneway beside our home, kicking and kicking to start my father's '55 BSA. When it would finally sputter to a start, my concentration would grow to a sharp focus as I tried to let out the clutch slowly while marrying it with just enough throttle to bring me to a smooth takeoff. More often, I lurched and stumbled forward while trying to keep the front wheel straight and remember to pick my feet up. A few feet farther down the lane, I would sigh and begin kicking again.

A couple of years later, my older brother began road racing, and I became a racetrack rat. We spent many weekends wandering to several tracks in Ontario-Harewood, Mosport and eventually Shannonville. These were the early years of two-stroke domination, of Kawasaki green and 750 two-stroke triples, of Yvon Duhamel's cat-and-mouse games and the artistry of Steve Baker.

Eventually, I started to pursue interests other than the race track. I got my motorcycle licence and began wandering the backroads on my own. I found myself stopping along sideroads if I saw a rider sitting alone, just checking to see if I could be of help. And I continued to wave to each biker I saw.

But I remained confused as to why some riders never waved back. It left me with almost a feeling of rejection, as if I were reaching to shake someone's hand but they kept their arm hanging by their side.

I began to canvass my friends about waving. I talked with people I met at bike events, asking what they thought. Most of the riders told me they waved to other motorcyclists and often initiated the friendly air handshake as they passed one another.

I did meet some riders, though, who told me that they did not wave to other riders because they felt that they were different from other bikers. They felt that they were "a breed apart." One guy told me in colourful language that he did not "wave to no wusses.'' He went on to say that his kind of bikers were tough, independent, and they did not require or want the help of anyone, whether they rode a bike or not.

I suspected that there were some people who bought a bike because they wanted to purchase an image of being tougher, more independent, a not-putting-up-with-anyone's-crap kind of person, but I did not think that this was typical of most riders.

People buy bikes for different reasons. Some will be quick to tell you what make it is, how much they paid for it, or how fast it will go. Brand loyalty is going to be strong for some people whether they have a Harley, Ford, Sony, Nike or whatever. Some people want to buy an image and try to purchase another person's perception of them. But it can't be done. They hope that it can, but it can't.

Still, there is a group of people who ride bikes who truly are a "breed apart." They appreciate both the engineering and the artistry in the machines they ride. Their bikes become part of who they are and how they define themselves to themselves alone.

They don't care what other people think. They don't care if anyone knows how much they paid for their bike or how fast it will go. The bike means something to them that nothing else does. They ride for themselves and not for anyone else. They don't care whether anyone knows they have a
bike. They may not be able to find words to describe what it means to ride, but they still know. They might not be able to explain what it means to feel the smooth acceleration and the strength beneath them. But they understand.

These are the riders who park their bikes, begin to walk away and then stop. They turn and look back. They see something when they look at their bikes that you might not. Something more complex, something that is almost secret, sensed rather than known. They see their passion. They
see a part of themselves.

These are the riders who understand why they wave to other motorcyclists. They savour the wave. It symbolizes the connection between riders, and if they saw you and your bike on the side of the road, they would stop to help and might not ask your name. They understand what you are up against every time you take your bike on the road-the drivers that do not see you, the ones that cut you off or tailgate you, the potholes that hide in wait. The rain. The cold.

I have been shivering and sweating on a bike for more than 40 years. Most of the riders that pass give me a supportive wave. I love it when I see a younger rider on a "crotch rocket" scream past me and wave. New riders carrying on traditions.

And I will continue in my attempts to get every biker just a little closer to one another with a simple wave of my gloved clutch hand. And if they do not wave back when I extend my hand into the breeze as I pass them, I will smile a little more. They may be a little mistaken about just who is a "breed apart."
Staat twee posts boven de jouwe :W
 
a>
full
 
Vooraf wil ik alvast zeggen dat ik niemand op zijn(lange?) tenen wil trappen.

Ik was vanmiddag met mijn motormaatje aan het rijden richting zeeland, even een kort stopje gemaakt bij de bezinepomp.
Wij komen daar aan en ik zie twee choppers staan, met berijders ernaast.
Een van hen kijkt me aan, ik steek mijn hand op en...... :? hij kijkt me een beetje vreemd aan en vervolgens draait ie zich weer om |(

Later zie ik een hele groep choppers voorbijkomen, een stuk of 20 á 30, ik steek weer twee vingertjes in de lucht, bijna de hele stoet lang.... 2 reacties gehad.... toch 2 maar goed.....van de 20 á 30 :N

Ik was al wat afwachtender met zwaaien bij chopper-rijders, maar nu is het nog erger dan voorheen.
Ik wil dus niet beweren dat geen een chopper-rijder naar een sportfiets zwaait(hoogst waarschijnlijk zwaaien er van MF wel een hoop doordat die het eenheidsgevoel iets meer hebben), maar het valt me wel op dat ik bij deze groep vaak voor niets zwaai, wat erg jammer is.

Ik vraag me dus af waarom dit zo is gegroeid?
Bij een groep zwaait de eerste en de laatste dus 2 x ;)
 
Dezelfde ervaring heb ik dus met buikschuivers. Die zwaaien nooit. Doe ik dus nu ook niet meer naar hen. Zal toch wel komen door de pijn in hun polsen die ze krijgen als ze niet hard genoeg kunnen rijden.
 
Wat een gezeur.. Als ik zwaai zwaait 95% terug; zomer en winter en op ieder type motor. Van die paar die niet zwaaien denk ik dan dat die zich met een andere nuttige bezigheid bezig houden zoals schakelen, remmen of koppelen, ze me niet zien of dat ze zo'n kød humeur hebben dat je eigenlijk niet eens zou moeten willen dat ze je groeten 8-) :]
 
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