I haven’t written anything funny in a while, so let me tell you a story.
Between my sophomore and junior years of college, I spent a particularly horrible summer living in Vermont with my then-girlfriend, Rachel. We lived in a small courtyard of cookie-cutter apartments called Candlelight Terrace. Early in the summer a friend from college had left a moped in our care. Before we go on let me tell you a little about Dave.
I met Dave on my first day of college. His real name was Aaron, but we all called him Dave because one day he told us to. He was a fairly childish, a wonderful cartoonist, and spent more time playing Grand Theft Auto in my dorm room than he did sleeping in his. He dropped out of college before our sophomore year when his dad discovered that Dave spent less time in his classes than he did eating candy.
Anyway, Dave had – on a whim – bought a moped he saw tethered to a light post for $100. For whatever reasons I cannot even begin to explain, Dave decided the best place to leave this barely function moped was outside of our apartment. It stayed there all summer.
During a cookout with Rachel’s family I decided to give the ol’ hog a ride. I jumped on the little blue moped, cranked the pedals, and went rip-roaring around Candlelight Terrace. Never have I felt so free. The wind was blowing through my hair. I was driving in a circle at 15 miles per hour. Suddenly, I realized that I could not slow down. This was due to several circumstances:
- One of the hand brakes worked, one did not.
- I did not know which was the brake any how.
- Since the parking lot was a circle, every time I would turn, I would also accelerate, as there was no way to turn and not twist the accelerator.
I figured that I was not going to be stopping under my own power, so I might as well hit something that looks unimportant. One of our neighbors had an old, rusty pick-up truck. It had dings all over it and pieces of the body were hanging off. I aimed for one of the back tires. The bike stopped immediately and bounced back. I did not. I was tossed off of the bike and into the side of the truck – leaving a dent in the truck and huge bruise on my shoulder. The force of the impact had caused rust from all over the truck to fall to the tar.
I walked the moped back to the cookout, my pride aching about as much as my shoulder. The front light had fallen out of the frame. Though, when I took a closer look, I discovered the light was apparently held in place by a bit of duct tape. That made for an easy fix.
A month and a half later, Dave swung by to collect his bike. He took one, brief look at it and screamed “Who crashed my bike!” I don’t know how he knew, but he did.
He then sold the bike for $50.