WARNING: NEIL LIKEZ TYPOEZ
Never go on your first motorcycle ride alone. Never.
Here’s what happened:
I thought I had the hang of it. It’s not like a bought the heaviest bike on the market. Nope. For this I did my homework. I chose a motorbeast that I knew I could handle. And I could.
I did great. I spent the first hour just tooling around the University. That got to be a pain because of all the pedestrian crosswalks and buses. But it was great practice. It gave me the courage to go farther!
I decided that the back road were safer than the highway. I did not buy said motorbeast for such things. Too fast for me, at least right now.
It was a perfect day in Charlottesville. Sunny and fresh. Everything seemed to be going my way. I tooled the byways for hours. I understand why riders do it now. There’s a peace to it. A freedom that riding inside an automobile bubble can’t give you.
All that fresh air and freedom growled up quite the appetite. By the time I made my way within fifteen minutes of home I was starving. Ravenous. Chew my own— well, you get it.
I found a tiny little bar/sandwich shop/gas station. I went inside, ordered a sandwich and figured I’d earned a beer, then I went gas up my motorbeast.
That’s when it started, Dear Diary.
There I was, minding my own business, when one, two, three, four… soon fifteen hard-nosed Harleys pulled into the station. No two on ones here. No, sir. These guys looked like they were on the warpath. And guess who they picked as their first mission? Me.
Crap. Look at the time. I’ll clue you in on the rest next time.
Sorry to sketch and run.