I'm riding the scooter with a Young Gun on my wheel. He's getting ready for a trip across the pond. We're settling into our groove. The weather is favorable after a record heat wave for April slapped us in the throat. A long sleeve t-shirt is just right for me on the motor and him in shorts and short-sleeve jersey working up a sweat. Easy there, boys.
As I mentioned, we are in the groove, but about three miles into the ride is when I decide to check the gas gauge. Not good.
So I send him up the road and I stop at a country gas station. What makes it a country gas station? Well, it is also a feed and tack store, and the only non-truck vehicle at the place is me, on a red Vespa-like scooter. And I'm wearing a black helmet with flames on it. No matter how hard you try, it is hard to fit in like that.
I filled up the tank, which holds 1.1 gallons full, and went inside to pay (no pay at the pump here). I didn't have any cash, so I had to bust out the check card for my $2.67 in gas. Needing to show that I am indeed manly, I picked up some jerky as well. But I didn't like it.
With a bit of hurry to my step, I head for the door and an entering Farmer Joe holds the door open for me. I tip the bill of my helmet to him, say "Howdy" and "Thanks" and then see that the pump I chose to use to fill up my steed is the only pump that also spews diesel, and there is a line of two big trucks behind Collina, my faithful red scooter.
"Sorry 'bout that," I say. Farmer John replies, "Y'all are sure going fast out there. Have a good ride."
Well, we sure did.
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