I will tell you my story too. He was a boy and spent the summer as many children of that time (end 1980) in the village. And in the village we had a sarai, a sarai with various interesting things. Among them was a motorcycle from Minsk.

The motorcycle has been there for many years. I bought it to my uncle long before I was born. He drove on it until he simply stopped driving. And since the uncle's hand is out of his ass, he just put him in the bag. Grandfather did not need it, and this miracle stood in the dust for almost 15 years.

In the summer, at my 14 years old, my uncle during a family dinner handed me the keys to the motorcycle and said, "Take, understand, do, do what you want, it is now yours."

All of his relatives bowed him with loves. He was a star that night. And I, that I... I already in a hundred seconds scratched my motorcycle from under the barrel!

Of course, this summer was amazing, I bought a new chain for the money collected from the debris, made friends with the older boys from the yard and with their help took the carburetor, changed the cameras in the wheels. In one word, he spent almost 3 months on a iron horse.

Here is the day X. With friends found gasoline, diluted with oil. And I took a motorcycle! It was an untransmitted feeling, before my childhood gaze all the epic twists that were waiting for me.

The relatives came out of the house and looked at me and my horse with astonishment.

Uncle then ran, immediately jumped on the motorcycle and went to walk, I watched all the action just with pride for myself.

But, here the uncle returned and simply bursting well, drove the mozzicle into the shell and not very explaining with the key went home.

On my questions and protests, the households said they will give tomorrow.

And for tomorrow, Mosic from the morning was stolen where it was sold.

I didn’t get money from my uncle.

There was a response to the protests. That I did not understand it and nobody gave it to me. I’m 40 and I still hate it.