black chevrolet

"So, when do you want to ride my motorcycle?"

"Wait, how big is your motorcycle?"

"It's an 1100."

"Isn't that really huge? Like I was thinking, I start out on the little 400's and 500's.

"Yes, it's really huge. It's a musclebike."

"And you think I can handle it."

"And I think you can handle it." She handles like a kitten, really, just don't tip her over, and I'm sorry I didn't trust you with heavy machinery all these years. I can't tell you, but it's really just a leftover instinct that keeps me from trusting small women with quick reactions to the controls of powerful machinery. I'm sorry.

"It's okay, it's manageable...if you keep her below 4000 rpm. If you rev her up to 5000 rpm then she gets scary. After 6000 rpm she turns into an animal, and I revved her to 7500 I think once on the freeway. I dreamt last night that I ran her up to 8000, but the memory was disjointed and I can't remember if it was accompanied by any burning rubber or spewing oil. Oh yes oil. Don't be surprised if she spits on you. There are numerous (grumble) oil leaks."

I think the subject is closed, and she won't bring it up again. She's busy, and she'll forget. On the other hand, depending on how thoroughly her imagination was captured by the MSF course, she just might take me up on this one...