Good decision.
I bought a BSA 500 Royal Star in Dec. 1969, and sold it in Aug. 1970, feeling very lucky to still be alive at that point. I was given 3 warnings, each one more intense than the last.
The first came about 2 months after I bought the bike. I was a typical 18 year old, with no comprehension of how easy it is to die. As I roared at twice the speed limit on Marine Dr. from West Van to North Van, under the Lions Gate Bridge underpass, a middle aged Highway Patrol officer riding one of those orange and white Harleys pulled me over. Instead of giving me a ticket, he just said, "Keep riding like that, son, and we'll have to pick you up with a shovel", and rode off. A warning like that, from another biker, was much more effective than any ticket from a cop in a patrol car. I never sped after that.
Second warning came a couple of months after, on a small country highway in Washington state. Buddy and I had just started a trip from N.Van across the states to Florida, up the Eastern Seaboard, and back across Canada. A car driver made a left turn in front of me. I had time to brake and not smack into him. That really made me realize that they just don't see bikes.
The third warning was "the one". I came within a few inches of death at very high speed. Trans Canada Highway, out in the middle of nowhere (western Ontario), 2 lanes, speed limit (pre-metric days here) of 60 mph (97 km/h). Buddy and I were riding side by side, with him on the right. We were probably doing about 65 mph (105 km/h). No other traffic, except two approaching cars. Just before they got to us, the rear car pulled out to pass. My buddy moved onto the gravel shoulder. I moved over as far as I could, just at the edge of the pavement, just as the passing car got to us. That car went by so close, the wind almost knocked me down. I guess he was going about 75 mph (120 km/h). When I pulled over onto the shoulder, my whole body shook for half an hour. All I thought about was selling my bike as soon as I got home. Then the numbers started rolling around in my head; that car's 75 mph hitting my 65 mph head on would have meant an impact of 140 mph (225 km/h).
The only time I feel like riding again, is when I see another 1970-ish BSA like mine. Thankfully, that is an extremely rare occurrence, and I easily shake off that old idea.
