So anyway, at last the day arrived. Dad and I had spent Friday afternoon (before shopping for helmets etc) frantically cleaning out the adorable miniature garage. This used to be a normal two-car garage, provided the cars were small and didn’t mind being very close to one another, but we had built a bedroom out of half of it. The back half. So you open the big rolling overhead garage door and are met with a space that only goes back half as far as it used to.
Coincidentally, this depth exactly accommodates a motorcycle front to back. Or two, if it comes to that.
It’s amazing what you can accomplish in an hour and a half given a bit of assistance and a great deal of motivation. I’ve been moaning about that filthy garage for months but BAM! It was reasonably tidy by dinnertime. Dad even installed a rubber flange-thing across the bottom to keep the worst of the leaves and dirt from blowing in as they have for all the years we’ve lived here. One cannot subject one’s brand-new motorcycles to such tawdry conditions.
Finally after breakfast when we were just starting to wonder if we’d dreamt the whole thing up, the man with the trailer phoned ahead to make sure we were home to take delivery. And half an hour later, here came a truck with a big enclosed trailer behind it, and then a very nice fellow unloaded two of the shiniest, most ridiculously clean and bright motorcycles to the curb. 
We ooh’ed and aah’ed and took photos, and then Dad and the delivery guy stood around and swapped stories and lies for a little while. Finally off the guy went and we were left in the street with two shiny, perfect motorcycles. Two shiny, perfect motorcycles that I was terrified to touch. They looked bigger than I remembered. Also? They were completely unspoiled. Who was I to smudge them all up and very possibly damage them in some way?
Luckily Dad was perfectly willing to garage them for us, because not long after delivery we had to run off to some errand or another. When we returned, we prevailed upon the neighbor lady to watch the kids for a short while so that we could go on a ride. Dad rides a Gold Wing so he took The Lovely Rhonda with him while I rode my own bike. The one with twelve miles on it, eight of which I had put there myself on the test ride.
I managed not to embarrass myself too much, and re-learned an important lesson. We hadn’t gotten the mesh jackets yet and it was just as hot as hell, so I rode in a t-shirt. (Yes, after all that discussion about safety gear, I rode in a t-shirt. It really was hot as blazes and it was a short ride. Don’t judge.)
At around forty miles per hour, a t-shirt will ride up in the back. Like, all the way up. Like, Hi there fellow highway travelers, please check out my foundation undergarments. I rode most of the way back with my left hand on my hip, holding my t-shirt in a death grip.
Properly Inquisitive 
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