Walk of Shame

This morning I was forced to take the Walk of Shame. No, not that kind of Walk of Shame. I did the motorcyclist's Walk of Shame.

As my son can attest, this morning as we were on the way to drop him off at school, I said "wow, I can't believe I haven't had to put gas into Val for so long. It's weird."

Yep. That kind of Walk of Shame. On the ride back home, Val began to sputter. I smugly reminded myself to tell Joey that Val hit the reserve tank only 45 minutes after I made that foreboding comment.

I reached down with my left hand to switch from the main tank to the reserve . . . wait a second, why it the fuel selector pointing UP? Oh f*ck ... that means I'm already sucking down the last few drops in the reserve tank ... I had broken the cardinal rule of riding a motorcycle. Always check the position of the fuel selector before starting the engine. Every single time. I've never made this mistake before today, and I'll never make it again.

So began my walk of shame. Thanks to that guy (whose name I am sorry to say I cannot recall) in the tan Chevy Cavalier for pulling over on the exit ramp to Devens, and thanks to Paul for the ride back. They are two good Samaritans who were kind enough to pick up a stranger wearing a leather jacket, carrying a helmet in one hand and a gas can in the other.