Remember last spring when I was going to lie to my dad about my old scooter he wanted? I was even going to pay you to buy it, or possibly cut the breakline so he could have it but not ride it?
I was desperate, remember, because I was worried he'd crash and I'd never forgive myself?
Well, I reluctantly kept my word. But only because he was so excited to tool around on my little scooter that I'd have been a complete jerkface if I didn't give it to him.
While I was worrying my poor ol' dad was going to crash to his death on Stella, Ray was giving me dirty looks because he had to hoist the thing into the back of a GMC Sonoma.
But as fortunate would have it, he only got to ride Stella a few times before her 10-year-old battery died.
Hallelujah. My mom and I were spared the worry of him speeding through south Marion, helmetless, on a purple scooter. Summer 2011!
Then Big Al came into the picture.
"Big Al is about my size, no bigger," my dad told me.
And Big Al works on motorcycles, so my dad hoisted Stella back into the Sonoma and took her to get a new battery.
She runs like a dream again. The automatic start even works now, which is a luxury I never had with Stella.
My worry not withstanding, I have to admit it was pretty fun this weekend seeing Stella back in riding shape again. She's got some fire in her still, and it does seem that the quiet streets of my parents' neighborhood is a great home for her.
Thankfully, even fixed, my dad rarely rides her, and mostly just around the neighborhood to show off. I think he likes having it more than he likes riding it.
Which is just fine by me. Summer 2012.
2 comments:
Do you hate all old men? Your poor, fragile father.
Only old scientists. And he isn't frail, he's dangerous!
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