Great story, entertaining to the point that I almost want an old Jawa to tinker on..but, not qiute.
My dad crashed his panhead when I was twelve, and mom announced that "there would be no motorcycles in the house hold." Of course, I took this to mean that a bike could be purchased and, um, stored at another household. At sixteen, I was building up a Buick powered Ford coupe, but had a half interest in a little red Allstate..a 125, I think. I paid my half of the beat up little bike by getting her running. Back then you could ride up past Steven's Creek Dam, slide the bike under a cable `gate,' onto a number of fire roads, and no one cared.
One afternoon, I was rolling down a narrow muddy road at a fair clip, hit a tree root, and the handle bars rolled in the clamps, opening the throttle to the stop. I'd been bounced into the prone position on the seat and holding on came easier than loosening my grip. I lucked out to the max because I was only a hundred or so feet from rather deep creek crossing the road. Charging into a couple feet of water killed the engine and cushioned my landing after launching over the bars.