No, not another sordid tale of splitting headaches, wobbly hole shots and operating under the influence, but a few hours in the shop working on the eternally unfinished bike. These used to be called sissy bars, but I suppose in the thought-control, nanny-state world we live in that would be politically incorrect. So I bent up a "gender-confused safety device."
Either way I think it's a bit too tall, or too short, and I'll probably scrap 'em. Subconsciously I'm trying to save as much work as possible for next winter.