After an aborted bicycle* ride this afternoon, exploiting another weekend of indian summer weather, i was contemplating taking out the motorcycle for another cruise to nowhere.
We returned my wounded bike to the garage. i asked my bicycle buddy, Studly McRocklegs - who is also my motorcycle buddy – to stick around a couple of minutes to make sure i could get the motorcycle to start. A couple of tries, a little choke here, a little choke there, and he** coughed to life.
Straddling the crotchety old bastard***, i wanted to make sure he got a good warm up, and wouldn’t stall out on me. As i revved the throttle, i put on a silly performance for Studly – pretending to be riding that motorized bronco for a bit of self pleasure.
i could barely hear him bust out laughing over the sound of the engine, but followed his glance to the doorway from the garage that leads to my kitchen. Where my daughter was taking in my performance – displaying a look of the most abject horror i’ve ever seen.
Ya know, i didn’t think it was possible. But i have discovered yet another way to traumatize my children…
pic found here
* Flat tire – about 8 1/2 miles into a planned 20 mile bike ride. Oops. We tried to replace the inner tube, but decided that timing-wise it might work out ok if Studly rode back to the car, and i walked the 2 miles back toward a place we could meet up for lunch. Worked out ok, but i need to get my fucking bike fixed… Turns out, walking in bike shoes is not particularly pleasant. Punishment for not performing proper maintenance on my non-motorized two-wheeled friend…
** Motorcycle. Not Studly.
*** Motorcycle. Not Studly.