Screaming Tranny

Screaming Tranny




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Screaming Tranny
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concrete72



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Not that kind ok f tranny.
4 speed 87 sporty. Lower end is making all sorts of sounds in 2nd & 3rd gear. Mountain riding super hot day. I managed the last 50 miles with lots of coasting and dropping it into 4th and making it work. Sounds like it's. A bit of a screetch. Any help I'm in the mountains so I'll have to limp into town for any parts or fluids. I have oil and tools.



RustyShackleford66



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I dont think that you should limp it any where. Take it apart and repair it before you limp until it is no longer repairable.



concrete72



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Originally Posted by RustyShackleford66


I dont think that you should limp it any where. Take it apart and repair it before you limp until it is no longer repairable.

RustyShackleford66



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Is there oil in it??

Primary chain adjusted properly?

I am worried about seizure and case damage...Good Luck!

What park are you in?



farmall



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If it squalls in specific gears that would indicate a tranny teardown and repair.

That's not a field fix for most people. If you've never done it it's not a field fix for you. How many miles are you away from home?

"Oops, tranny went bye-bye, now how do I get this POS back to the house so I can get on with life?"

If it locks up at speed you can crash and die, or it can blow the back of the transmission case out in classic Sportster fashion.You can't save yourself from a locked transmission by using the clutch, by the way.

Can you rent a truck in town and get it home that way?

You could post in the Chop Cult Travel Assistance thread and see if someone is in rescue range.







Last edited by farmall; 07-21-2013 at 8:13 PM .











concrete72



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I'm 250 mi. Out. I can arrange a truck. So just in hopes that its this simple could this be a low fluid issue? I pulled the drainage screw an nothing comes out. Just hoping. I'm not looking to crash so I'll play it safe and figue out a way to get it home. Thanks.



Stlmikie



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You pulled the plug and nothing came out? Holy cow. When was your last service? Did you do it or have a shop? How long did you ride after you had symptoms? And regardless of who last serviced the tranny where did the oil go if there was fluid in it?



RustyShackleford66



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You have most likely done damage.

You will likely need serious repairs. But at this time it is probably repairable.

Add oil and try it.....Maybe it will last?

I would haul it home.

Seizure at speed is a real concern. And extreme damage will be done.



farmall



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concrete72



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You pulled the plug and nothing came out? Holy cow. When was your last service? Did you do it or have a shop? How long did you ride after you had symptoms? And regardless of who last serviced the tranny where did the oil go if there was fluid in it?

RustyShackleford66



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concrete72



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Cool thanks. Live and learn. Never have taken too good of care of my bikes. I need to do better. Thanks for all the input. I'll put oil in tomorrow and give it a spin.



Acosi151



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Pull the bitch apart as soon as you can before you triple or quadruple the cost of the problem by launching parts of gears out through the case (like i did this spring on my 87)

..also imagine your back tire locking up unexpectedly .. Just imagine...







Last edited by Acosi151; 07-22-2013 at 4:15 AM .











GermanG



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concrete72



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Last edited by concrete72; 07-25-2013 at 4:28 PM .


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"My ex and I were having sex, missionary. I went to shift the angle of my hips at the exact moment he broke rhythm and give me a surprise, extra hard and fast thrust. This completely destroyed my perineum. I lived with my grandma at the time, and I couldn't get the tear to stop bleeding. We were freaking out, so I went into the living room, holding the bloody towel over my crotch, and asked grandma what to do . She was more concerned that I had stained one of the good hands towels."
"My friend was hooking up with a guy who was so big that while she was blowing him, she literally threw up every drink she had had that night on him . It also triggered a chain reaction, and they both spent the rest of the night in the bathroom."
"Years ago I met up with a guy in an empty cornfield. His dick was almost 9 inches and thick. Neither of us had condoms or lube, so we foolishly just used spit. A few minutes later, he finished and pulled out. That's when I noticed the bloody, shitty jizz that was dripping off his dick and down my legs . We didn't bring anything to clean up with, so we used my underwear. He thanked me and took off. I went to Walmart a few blocks away, bought new shorts and underwear, and changed in the restroom. When I got home, my mom complimented me on my new shorts."
"I hooked up with a guy who had the most enormous penis I'd ever seen. Rather than chickening out, I grabbed the lube and attempted to make it fit. I have dyspareunia, a condition that makes sex very painful, and his dick ended up ripping the lower part of my vagina, à la giving-birth-style. I had to have an episiotomy, which meant stitches from my vagina to my ass ."
"I dislocated my jaw trying to give a blow job once."
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"I was dating a guy with a very long, very girthy penis. I was too scared to have penetrative sex with him, so we always stuck to oral. One night, I was going down on him and decided I wanted to try to deep-throat. His penis jerked and I got scared and bit him really hard. His dick started bleeding and he got really freaked out and made me bring him to the hospital . Everything turned out fine. The doctor just bandaged it and gave him some antibiotics, but we stopped dating soon after."
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The Washington Post Democracy Dies in Darkness
My own rape shows how much we get wrong about these attacks
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This article was published more than 8 years ago
[WARNING: This essay describes sexually explicit situations.]
“I made these for us to celebrate,” he said, sauntering out of the kitchen with two shot glasses full of a red concoction.
He cocked his head to one side. “You’re here!” he cheered. “You finally made it.”
I had been on a long, grueling bus ride up from Washington DC to his apartment in New York. It was already 9:45 p.m on a Friday last summer. I felt sore and had just taken a shower to rid the bus experience from my skin. I laughed and, holding the towel around my waist in one hand and the shot glass in the other, I looked at it. “What’s in it?”
“Gin!” I thought he said, more excitedly than he should have. Gin makes me sick. “That’s not really my thing,” I said. Then he pouted, comically and even adorably: “But I made it just for us.”
So I drank it and it was a bit sharp but really delicious, like tart watermelon. “You can hardly taste the gin,” I said.
He laughed. “I said G.” He meant GHB, gamma-hydroxybutyric acid, commonly known as the date-rape drug. Later came several more druggings, as he held Gatorade up to my limp lips with who-knows-what mixed in. I spent the weekend — about 60 hours — semi-conscious and didn’t leave his apartment until Monday morning. Sometimes I think I never left his apartment, that someone who merely looks and sounds like me walked out.
I had received anal sex twice in my life before that night. By weekend’s end, it was 17 times, according to my fog-of-war count. Eyes squeezed shut, the tally was the only thing I focused on at times — like a ticking clock in a solitary confinement cell. Every addition to the tally meant I was one moment closer to the end. He moved out soon afterward, which helped erase the existence of that place for me.
I was raped. I had met him a few weeks earlier at a house party, and we had hit it off. He was handsome: 30, well-built, tall with long black hair, a surfer’s laugh, and great taste in “X-Men” (Gambit). He was not some lecherous old man. He was not a sexually repressed loser. There was nothing about him that was “rapey” (a word I detest). The sex itself was — I can’t really say it was “good,” because that’s far too moral of a word and far more than he deserves, but it was highly skilled. He knew exactly what he was doing, exactly how to stimulate me. What he didn’t know was when to listen to me saying “no,” when to stop, when to realize that my kicking and punching and shoving and screaming and writhing was not just some sick roleplay while he blasted Lady Gaga’s “I Like It Rough.” He covered my sobbing mouth with his hands. He hushed me and called me “sexy,” as in “You got this, sexy.”
When I wrote about men who are raped by women , for Details magazine in 2004, it caught the eye of Bill O’Reilly, who discussed it on his show. “If you’re lucky enough as a guy to have some girl come on to you in that manner,” he said, “but you don’t want to reciprocate, you stand up and you leave, unless the woman is 240 pounds and tackles you. The man is traditionally stronger and better equipped to leave the room.” There is a great disbelief out there, despite the numbers — from the CDC! the NIH! the Justice Department! — about how 1 in 33 men have experienced “a completed or attempted rape,” or 12.9 percent have been sexually assaulted. Mostly it’s by men they know. (I have a couple dozen mutual Facebook friends with my assailant.)
Some people still see rape according to the old cliche: vile men dragging innocent women into dark alleys and then brutalizing them. As we are finally learning, the reality is much more complicated than the conventional-wisdom cartoon. Sometimes those women experience orgasm, which can be psychologically devastating. I was erect for much of my rape (at least the parts for which I was awake, but probably other parts, too); my assailant knew how to stimulate the physiological response of an erection — as opposed to the emotional or psychological response — even if I was crying or actively trying to think about unsexy things. I wasn’t handcuffed or tied up, but was in a version of dissociated shock. The invisible, immeasurable shackles of such a violation are immense.
From the bed, I could see the front door, but it was miles away and I thought, No, I won’t be able to g
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