I KICKED A DEAD MOTORCYCLE

Since I commute to work in a bicycle, I was pretty excited when my roommate told me that he was leaving town for a month and was leaving his motorcycle back in my care. I couldn’t wait for him to leave and the week between seemed endless. I mean bicycle is cheap and healthy and environment friendly and all, but it’d be awesome to not pedal your own transport once in a while. So I waited. Finally his hour of departure came. The very next day I took the motorcycle out for a spin. It felt nice to feel the wind in my hair while simultaneously not feeling sweat in my face. It was……..liberating. That was Sunday.

 

Wednesday morning I deliberately woke up late. There was no need to hurry as I could fly to work. I took out my sunglasses, I put the helmet and tried to look cool while I straddled the Motorbike. I inserted the key and pushed the start button. Nothing. I mean there was a long coughing of the engine but it didn’t exactly roar to a start. I wasn’t worried. The poor thing had been sitting there for two days and needed a little coaxing. I pushed start again. Again the same thing. Which is to say nothing. I still wasn’t worried after 10 or 15 tries. I however start to worry when sweat started to pour down my brows because of the effort of kicking the damned thing. There were friendly advices galore. Meanwhile, I was getting late, and I could see people coming in for work while I was yet to start for work five kilometres away! After kicking (and cursing with the choicest of expletives I have learnt throughout my adulthood) for about half an hour I finally gave up. I picked up my rusty but trusted bicycle and pedalled to work. The machine is still there in the parking lot, untouched, a week later. I have learned my lesson.

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