This Morning's Conversation
...with a Ducati ST3s.
I hop on her.
"Oh. You again."
"Mornin' Red!"
"+incoherent muttering+"
(I thumb the starter... she is reluctant, but the starter stays engaged, even after I give up and take my thumb off the button! And she starts.)
"Oh! That's neat!"
(I swear this bike looked at me with one eyebrow raised and shook her head)
(I lift the sidestand and the bike dies. And laughs at me.)
(I pop the bike into neutral and start her up again.)
"Ooooh Kay. Here we go!"
"+HEAVY EXAGGERATED SIGH.+ Yay."
I pull out onto 119 in first, and stay in first as I approach the traffic light. She is not talking to me. In fact, she is suspiciously silent. The arrow turns green, I turn left.
We roll down the road, with no attention from any police, and light traffic (enough that we're doing limit +5 and no passing opportunities).
I think she's starting to warm up to me.
She then flatly recommends that, if it's at all possible, I should hop on a highway, any highway, this morning, since she has not had a chance to stretch for some time.
OK, I lean left and then stop at the entrance to the Ayer rotary to wait for traffic.
"Let's do this," she says.
I let the clutch out and crank her around the rotary, totally effortlessly.
"See?"
"Wow, yup."
"Highway?"
"We're getting there."
"+foot tapping...+"
I follow a box truck up the entrance ramp. "Crud."
"Pass him."
"OK!"
"NOT LIKE THAT. What are you, new? Christ, stop hanging onto me so tight. Quit riding [treating] me like a BMW [your old girlfriend]. Stop it, stop it. Let go. Jesus. You're doing it all wrong. Will you let me lead??"
I do as she asks. I let go of the scruff of her neck (Hey, Rosie likes it like that, what can I say?) and she smooths right out. Oh. I see. I pull out to pass a giant Pepsi 18-wheeler. She spins up to 8K.
"Oh! Wow! I... um... I love you, too!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, n00b."
I get off the highway, roll down Old Union Turnpike and up my office driveway. I park her. I thank her. She does not respond.
Damn these hot-blooded red Italians.
I hop on her.
"Oh. You again."
"Mornin' Red!"
"+incoherent muttering+"
(I thumb the starter... she is reluctant, but the starter stays engaged, even after I give up and take my thumb off the button! And she starts.)
"Oh! That's neat!"
(I swear this bike looked at me with one eyebrow raised and shook her head)
(I lift the sidestand and the bike dies. And laughs at me.)
(I pop the bike into neutral and start her up again.)
"Ooooh Kay. Here we go!"
"+HEAVY EXAGGERATED SIGH.+ Yay."
I pull out onto 119 in first, and stay in first as I approach the traffic light. She is not talking to me. In fact, she is suspiciously silent. The arrow turns green, I turn left.
We roll down the road, with no attention from any police, and light traffic (enough that we're doing limit +5 and no passing opportunities).
I think she's starting to warm up to me.
She then flatly recommends that, if it's at all possible, I should hop on a highway, any highway, this morning, since she has not had a chance to stretch for some time.
OK, I lean left and then stop at the entrance to the Ayer rotary to wait for traffic.
"Let's do this," she says.
I let the clutch out and crank her around the rotary, totally effortlessly.
"See?"
"Wow, yup."
"Highway?"
"We're getting there."
"+foot tapping...+"
I follow a box truck up the entrance ramp. "Crud."
"Pass him."
"OK!"
"NOT LIKE THAT. What are you, new? Christ, stop hanging onto me so tight. Quit riding [treating] me like a BMW [your old girlfriend]. Stop it, stop it. Let go. Jesus. You're doing it all wrong. Will you let me lead??"
I do as she asks. I let go of the scruff of her neck (Hey, Rosie likes it like that, what can I say?) and she smooths right out. Oh. I see. I pull out to pass a giant Pepsi 18-wheeler. She spins up to 8K.
"Oh! Wow! I... um... I love you, too!"
"Don't get ahead of yourself, n00b."
I get off the highway, roll down Old Union Turnpike and up my office driveway. I park her. I thank her. She does not respond.
Damn these hot-blooded red Italians.