Anyway, back to Saturday and why this prelude is relevant. I was attempting to fit
my lowers back on for the ride and it never happened. While several members of the
UTMC were dining at Zorba's planning the day's ride, I was in the parking lot of
my apartment wondering why something that came off so easy would not line up right
ever again.
So, I decided to mount up around 10 in the PM. I met Aaron again, along with Sisco
and Beemer Dan. We managed to get the occasional pot of coffee from the melancholy
little death-rockers at Paris on the Platte and then headed off to Larimer St. Aaron
and Sisco found a parking spot out in front of the Market, whereas I made my way
down the block and across the street. As I backed my bike to the curb, I noticed
a foul stench emitting from behind me, BENEATH me. "Oh crap, what's on fire,"
I thought.
It was nothing but the reek of a storm drain I had parked my rear tire on. So, I
rounded my way to the aft of my Duc, unlatched the seat to stow my helmet and...
as I removed the key... in slow motion... the key plummeted to the ground... balancing
itself momentarily before slipping between the grates of the storm drain. It vanished
into the rotting steam that surrounded me now, as if to let me know that I was once
again just a
pedestrian in leather.
I couldn't speak. I had to make gutteral sounds and point to the drain in order to
explain my situation to Beemer Dan. It was clear to me that I was screwed beyond
the normal definition. I imagined myself, sitting there on the curb at 3:30 AM, all
the bikes gone, the sluts safe in someone's bed and a Ducati to my left standing
motionless amidst the moist upheaval of Larimer.
Not so. The UTMC had sprung into action. Aaron and Sisco went to an all night hardware
store and returned with a flashlight, a coil of copper wire and a magnet. My critical
error which had left me feeling like the butt of my own joke had given them a purpose
by which to act on. Forget all the slutties bumming for rides, they had found their
true entertainment for the evening.
Before I could begin to think what exactly I would do with these articles they returned
with, Sisco was already lying on the sidewalk facing down into the drain. He lowered
the magnet into the abyss as I fed the wire to him. What I thought would be 45 minutes
of useless fishing turned out to be less than 5 minutes of productive engineering.
My key was retrieved with an astounding act of MacGyverism. Never doubt the UTMC!!!
I offered to buy them breakfast but they actually scoffed at the idea. Towards the
end of the night I insisted again and we headed for the Denver Diner just in time
to encounter drunks with tazers. Don't forget to wash your mits after handling keys
wrought in sewage and remember to tip well.
The moral of the story? Well, if a drunk chick tries to force feed you french fries
dripping in chocolate ice cream and tobasco sauce, just look at her tits. |
