Chicks That Drive Sticks

Kevin and I spent this weekend tearing apart our motorcycles...well, his motorcycle. Mine ran with remarkably little coersion, needing only a couple of jump-starts from my car. His needed some parts replaced, including the carb intake boots and the cylinder intakes, plus the replacement of a truly frightening melted wire and the taping of the rear turn signals. I probably shouldn't feel as smug as I do about having a significantly nicer bike than my boyfriend.

The bike work was genuine fun, something I don't get nearly enough of these days. We were both involved, interested, and helping each other, and he was too distracted to be constantly making sexual comments and then getting pissed off when I didn't respond, as he spends most of his time doing now. I even had a moment of amusement when I grabbed a water bottle from the sink to clean my bike, filled it up, and started cleaning the bike...only to realize that the water that was already in the bottle was orange-flavored, and I was making the bike smell like fake oranges.

Even though it runs, I still have to take apart my bike to track down what I believe is a loose electrical connection somewhere. When I put it away last fall, the turn signals had stopped working completely after a short bout of working only when the bike was warm. When I took it out yesterday, they worked fine, but the battery didn't seem to be charging. After I had failed to jump it from the jump-pack and jumped it twice from my car, it still refused to start on its own...and then I left it, took a shower, came back, and it started fine. Perhaps another melted wire like the one in Kevin's bike? We'll find out tonight, I hope.

So I have a bike that works and a motorcycle license, but no registration, inspection, or insurance, because I can't afford those things. Kevin has a bike that works and the money for registration etcetera, but no motorcycle license and no idea how to ride. He proved that yesterday in a moment that could have gone horribly wrong but fortunately produced only minor damage on his part and concealed hilarity on mine.

When the bike was finally running and put back together, he asked me to ride it up and down the driveway to make sure it worked like it should. I did so with no problems, except for one strange issue: when I turned the handlebars in either direction, the engine revved to several times idle speed. I told him about it and he decided to have his friend come over one of these days and take a look. Then he said, "Should I try to ride it down the driveway?"

I knew that wouldn't end well, but also that it wouldn't be appreciated to tell him no, so I shrugged and told him to do what he wanted.

"Hey, what's the worst that can happen...I fall and get killed."

"Nah, the worst that can happen here is you break your leg," I said pragmatically, knowing there was a good chance that would actually happen. I got the bike situated so he had a straight shot from one end of the driveway to the other and handed it over.

It took him ten or so tries to let the clutch out without stalling it, and when he finally did get going, the result was exactly what I expected. He rolled to the end of the driveway, didn't brake enough or in time, tried to turn, the engine revved and the bike spun out from underneath him. I watched without moving as it stuttered, revved, turned, and started to go over, and he hopped sideways as it finally skidded out and landed on its side, fortunately not on his leg.

I jogged down to make sure he was all right, then helped him lift the bike back upright. Fortunately nothing had broken or spilled, and it started right back up for me. I revved the engine, let out the clutch, and rode it smoothly back to where it had begun.

Yes, the clutch is stiff and it needs a new clutch cable, but Kevin's swearing about the clutch being "too quick" for him was obviously bullshit. His hands are much stronger than mine and I had no trouble with it, though I wouldn't take the bike more than a mile because it would tire my hand too much. He just can't admit that he's not as good at driving a standard as he claims. I've watched him torture both my old car and Wren's, and winced every time. Power to the chicks that drive sticks, I say.