Our first night together, he's going to stay with me.
One part garage, one part smoky bar, his smell is definitely a departure from my once-pristine, sweet-smelling little space.
"This is definitely going to be a very non-chick way to live for a while, " Dave said as we maneuvered the bike through the door. "Maybe they make pink gas cans.
It's not a permanent arrangement, just until I can get a lock and tarp for the backyard. One thing for sure, he looks a lot bigger in here than he did outside in Dave's huge yard.
"Have fun with your new roommate," Dave said as he left just now. "Make sure you tuck him in."
Dave once told me about the time a long time ago when he and another guy kept their motorcycles in their house, so they could take them apart, spread the parts on the kitchen table, and ride their bikes through the front door. Times sure have changed. My father, once known for scare tactics like showing me and my little brother graphic pictures of injuries he'd seen in the ER and in his practice: "that could have been your skull if you'd been on that motorcycle" or "see this black thing? It's what happens to your lungs when you smoke" has mellowed considerably. When I told him I was getting a dirtbike, all he said was that he hoped he wouldn't be getting any calls from the ER like he did when I did the Pikes Peak Ascent last summer and had a heat stroke. "You've always marched to the beat of your own drummer; just be careful." Thanks Dad. My mom: "A dirtbike? Is that like a bicycle?"
Anyway, here we are. I'm not sure what to think of the white skulls on the sides of the gas tank. I would have preferred flowers. But I think we're going to be a good pair.
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