So today, I decided I was going to conquer my damn motorcycle.
The last time I rode, I had a bit of trouble. Well, actually, more than a bit. I jerked, stopped and stalled all the way around my neighborhood. At one point, I just sat in the middle of the intersection at the corner of my street and just sighed.
I’m a long way from a closed track and 250 ccs.
This week, though, I’ve been itching to get out. I’ve had monster allergies this week, and so I’ve either been unable to breath, doped up on Sudafed and nasal spray or a mighty cocktail of both. I have been in no condition to get behind the gears of a motorcycle.
But I felt better today. And no one was home to help me if I couldn’t get the damn thing back in the driveway. There was no one to call if I knocked all 900 pounds of steel over in the dirt. If I cried, no one would care.
Perfect setting for a journey to independence.
And so I started the bike, got all geared up, and hopped on, feeling like the most confident biker babe to ever hit Silver St. And I rode that freaking bike. I rode it, and shifted it, and broke it (breaked it? applied the breaks?) for a whole 30 minutes. And I only stalled once. Well, twice technically, and it happened to be in the path of an angry FedEx delivery man and a teenage driver. Not quite sure which scared me more.
So once I got them to go around me, I started her back up for the third time and went on my way. I rode, and turned, and even managed to make it back home, into my garage with the bike upright and all my extremities in place. It was a good ride.
Now if only there were a gas station on the corner of Silver St. and Cherry.