from August
28, 2006
I had a
really bad day when I commuted 30 miles into San Antonio by motorcycle, and
thought I might brighten someone else’s day by sharing it.
—————————————
Got up this
morning early to get a good start on the work day. Helped the wife get the kids
dressed, fed, etc. and ready for school.
Oldest child
(9) was so tired I gave him caffeine to wake up; the youngest (4) drank most of
the Dr. Pepper I gave the oldest.
Yes, sugar
and caffeine will wake up a four year old. Getting her off of the ceiling is
another matter.
Went out to
start the motorcycle: noticed a strange glow from the bike barn.
I left the
motorcycle tail light on all night, draining the motorcycle battery. However,
the battery is new, so the bike starts. As I warm the bike up, I note that gas
is a bit low, but should be more than enough to make town and the gas station.
Three miles
from edge of town, traffic is stopped cold due to a short cycling traffic
light. (Why do they put traffic lights across US freeways anyway? Isn’t that
why God invented overpasses? Oh yeah, TxDOT does not believe in God.) Go into
reserve tank while in traffic.
Traffic moves
one car length at a time, causing cramps in my clutch hand. I use neutral and
coast to massage my clutch hand against my leg. (Motorcycle riders know what
I’m talking about)
Half an hour
later when I cross the light, I note that I can still make work in time even
though I need to stop for gas.
Run out of
gas in heavy traffic at 65 miles per hour. You have not LIVED until you
navigate a dead motorcycle across three lanes of traffic while coasting. No
longer need caffeine to wake up at this point: pure adrenalin, baby. (Note to
self: a half hour in traffic will drain motorcycle reserve tank)
Gas station
is still a mile away, uphill. Call my boss to ask for help. Boss is stuck in
traffic and is bumming a ride in any case; suggests I call my coworker, who we
will call Fred as I am sure he does not want to be associated with this story
in any way.
Fred goes off
looking for a gas can to buy and fill with one gallon of premium (never use
anything else in a motorcycle!) gasoline.
Although my
bike is four or five feet from the actual traffic, I opt to sit on the concrete
barrier that separates the freeway for the access road. The blazing heat from
the morning sun is cooled by the steady breeze created by hurling semi-tractor
trailers just missing the narrow shoulder I am sitting on.
As I keep
watch for any inattentive drivers who might make me hurdle the concrete barrier
to avoid bodily injury, I notice that several ants are attempting to climb said
barrier. They get so far, and then the wind from a passing truck knocks them
back to the bottom of the barrier. They never stop climbing, even though there
is nothing at the top of the barrier that could conceivably interest an ant. I
try not to ruminate on possible parallels with my work at the office. (Just
kidding, boss!)
An hour
later, Fred comes walking up the freeway with the gas can. (How can they charge
$12 for a 1.5 gallon plastic container?!?). Fred assumed, quite correctly, that
it was unsafe to pull a car off of the road where I have been sitting, and so
parked up the access road. As we assemble the nozzle to the $12 gas can (I
still cannot believe the can cost more than the gas!), I notice the can claims
to be spill and leak proof.
The gas can
leaks…
…and does not
pour out gas when inverted.
After much
exclamation, I note that the now gasoline-soaked sticker on the can has a small
‘peel here’ arrow. It won’t peel, of course.
Finally,
instructions are revealed under the sticker, along with many warnings of all of
the dire things that can happen when you buy a gas can at a convenience store
at 7:45 am. Ignoring the warnings (what else can go wrong?) we find out that
THIS gas can is for cars only, and you have to perform surgery on the nozzle to
seal it to ‘prevent possible leakage.’ So we attempt to follow the directions
while any part we happen to set down are blown into traffic by those hurling
semi-trucks. We also discover that you have to pull back on the nozzle valve
(as if you were inserting the nozzle into a car gas tank) to get the gas
flowing. On a more positive note, this 1.5 gallon gas can boasts a ‘two gallon
per minute flow rate!’
So I get the
now not-leaking can into position and pull back the nozzle valve.
Two gallons
per minute into a three inch deep metal hole produces one heck of a splash. I
am now covered in gasoline along with my bike, the freeway, and Fred. Fred
happened to move my helmet away from the bike just before this (thanks Fred!)
so one item I will be wearing does not stink of gas.
The
motorcycle still does not have any gas in it. We figure out how to rig the
silly thing well enough to fill the bike, and Fred takes the gas can back up
the road with my profuse thanks and the cash contents of my wallet to
compensate him for the trouble and expense.
I make it to
the gas station, where I fill the bike and go inside to clean up. The door to
the Men’s room is locked, so I wait. My exposed skin is burning from the
gasoline when, 10 minutes later, a lady approaches with a key that says ‘Lady’s
room’ and unlocks that door.
I get the key
to the Men’s, (strangely enough, attached to an 8 by 10 picture frame) and
clean up.
I am now over
an hour late for work. I get back on the freeway… and notice that traffic is
stopped again. Not wasting any thoughts on the ironic fact that my former
squatting spot is now not getting any breeze, I duck off down an exit ramp, and
take an alternate route to work.
At work, my
boss, who sold me the bike, razzes me about him owning that motorcycle for 13
years and never running out of gas… I refrain from committing homicide by
reminding myself that killing your boss will most likely get you fired.
And the time is now 9:30 am. Boy, can I not wait to see what else
happens today…
The
rest of the day went well, since so many have asked…
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