My history with motorcycles has been a bit less amicable than most of you. I didn't like bikes for a long long time. I rode to be with my dad. My folks were divorced and my mom got custody, so my dad did whatever he could to make my time with him interesting. He had always had a bike. I often rode as a passenger and enjoyed that time, but then he decided to put me on a bike to ride on my own. I don't remember how old I was, but from what I remember it was a Yamaha Scrambler, I think 90cc hand me down. It weighed more than I did, was so tall I couldn't put both feet on the ground, and had a clutch that I couldn't pull with one hand. To make things more uncomfortable I didn't get to practice in a relatively clear safe place, we started off on 4x4 trails through the Sierra Nevadas with deep ruts, hard rocks and pointy branches. No fun on a bike that was too big for me, especially when I was trying to keep up with experienced riders. I never really got the chance to grow into the bike before home matters got shuffled around and the bike got decommissioned.
However despite a few years out of the saddle my dad managed to get a good deal on a 180 (190?) Honda Enduro for me, and a kawa 750 dirt bike for him. I was just out of my tweens and the new bike was still too tall for me (could touch the ground with the toes of both feet), but the clutch was actually manageable, and the 'me to bike' weight ratio was a lot more even. I finally felt like I was riding the bike rather than it running away with me holding on for dear life. So we went off into the hills again to hit the 4x4 trails, and after a few times I actually began to think I might enjoy riding, then I lost it. We had left the 4x4 trails for an actual bike trail and hit a hill with a few large rocks, and lots of loose gravel. He managed to negotiate his way up the hill, but I wiped out around halfway up. When I fell I was oriented legs up with my head further down the slope with my ankle wedged between two rocks. Naturally the bike fell on top of me, with the exhaust directly on my bare leg where my jeans had pulled up. With the leverage all wrong I couldn't get the bike off me so I had to wait a bit for my dad to get off his bike, get down the slippery hill and get the footing to get the bike off me, all while the exhaust cooked my leg. There wasn't any permanent damage, and a dozen years later the scar went away, but it soured me on bikes for a long while.
Then some more drama ensued, base closures, and ultimately family relocation. After I graduated college I ended up in Denver few years later my dad bought a Harley to replace his '93 Vulcan. At the time I was supporting myself, and my girlfriend on a lousy call in tech support job using a T-bird to get around. The T-bird wasn't the most efficient ride when it came to fuel and my dad started talking about giving me his Vulcan (also not particularly efficient in the realm of bikes, but better than my current ride). I accepted, but I didn't think I'd use it much if at all. I figured I'd give it a go and when I inevitably didn't like it I could sell it for some extra cash. Boy was I wrong.
When you're heading north on I-25 there's a portion around Colorado Blvd where the road dips down a bit and swings west. Coincidentally you've just passed through a commercial center, so the condos and office buildings are falling away to more traditional housing covered by trees. Suddenly you're faced with the Rockies, just trees, the highway, and those mountains. It was part of my every day commute, I had even passed it a few times on the Vulcan, but I'd never really noticed it. For some reason one day I noticed it, and I mean REALLY noticed it and I found myself surprised to think, "Holy ****, I LOVE this".
The rest of the story was posted in my intro, but the sum of it is that the Vulcan had some problems I couldn't afford to fix. By the time I had the cash I realized that the Vulcan wasn't going to be enough for me anymore so I started looking around, and ultimately fell for the Rocket.