black chevrolet

It's inexorable. The slow creep of oil back from the #3 exhaust mount. (I can see it in my minds' eye as I twist the throttle down to 4,500 rpms). The flying pistons are cramming oil into the crack in the head gasket, forcing it out past the looming, dirty exhaust collar. The screaming 75mph wind grasps the oozing sludge and slams it back against the cylinder wall, tearing it and pushing it, shoving it by main force along the flat plains of the air-cooling fins. It spreads out there, and slows down, pauses, even comes to a stop as I throttle down to 55 mph. But then speeds increase again, and the creeping flow resumes its march, closer and closer to the cliff at the rear of the motor...closer...closer...peels off in ropes of tiny globules and smack.

One after another, they bury themselves deep into my denim pant leg, piling up, spreading. I know without looking down that I now carry the brand of old motorcycle on yet another pair of jeans.

If and when fortune smiles upon me I will have a garage. I will have a torque wrench. I will have a complete set of sockets and open-ends, internet parts sources, and long, empty weekends with which to properly act the part of Old Motorcycle owner.

But this has not happened. I'm a college student. I live in a room. My motorcycle lives out in the parking lot. I currently possess a screwdriver, a pliers, and a 6mm open-end wrench.