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Authors: Sally Smith O' Rourke
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had I won, but she had caved in with far less persuading than I had expected.
âI suppose,â Aunt Ellen had murmured in final defeat, âthe young women are more liberated now than they were in my day.â She emitted a long sigh and her thin fingers fretted with the pile of needlework in her lap.
âYou know how I feel about motorized contraptions,â her voice trailed away, and I knew she was thinking of my mother, âso promise me that youâll be careful, Susan,â Aunt Ellen had whispered.
Of course I had promised.
And though I frequently did ride it after dark and was probably no more careful on the speedy little motorbike than any other sixteen-year-old experiencing her first intoxicating taste of genuine freedom, I was nevertheless careful enough to avoid ever wrecking the precious Vespa. And, except for the occasional skinned knee, I never did any serious damage to myself, either.
Chapter 9
T he unexpected discovery of my beloved old moped in the carriage house sent all my other plans for the day straight out the window. Because, having been reminded of the delicious feel of the wind in my face and the freedom to roam wherever I chose, including remote spots that no car or even jeep could possibly go, I became determined to get the Vespa running again.
Of course, Iâm now a responsible adult. So at first I very sensibly decided just to get the moped outside and clean it up a little. Then, perhaps in a few days or a week, I told myself, I would put it into the back of the Volvo and take it to a motorcycle dealer in Newport, who might be able to replace the ruined tires and restore the engine to running order.
As it turned out, though, the hardest part of getting the moped running again was extricating it from the carriage house. After an hour of shoving furniture around in the cramped space I finally managed to make a narrow pathway to the door. Then, with some difficulty I pushed the little bike into the sunshine on its flat tires and wiped it off with an old beach towel.
Outside in the daylight, the tires, though slightly worn, appeared to be free of cracks or splits. So I searched the carriage house for a pump but couldnât find one. Then I remembered the Fix-A-Flat can in the emergency kit that Bobby had bought for the Volvo, which I often drive to country auctions in out-of-the-way places.
In the trunk of the car I found the flat repair kit, which turned out to contain nothing more than a can of compressed air laced with some sticky substance. I shot a long blast into each of the mopedâs tires which, to my great surprise, both instantly fattened up and held.
Relieved of the dirt and cobwebs and with its tires inflated the bike looked almost as good as new. The gas tank, however, was empty. Then I vaguely recalled that each year before going away to school I had always drained the gas, along with the water from the cigarette-pack-sized battery. A few more minutes of rummaging in the carriage house produced half a can of the gas used for the lawn mower and a plastic bottle of oil. And the partially full bottle of mineral water that Iâd left in the Volvoâs front seat was more than enough to fill the tiny battery case to overflowing.
Having accomplished all of that, I stood back to admire my handiwork. My nails were split and greasy, my clothes were stained with sweat and my hair a dusty tangle. But it suddenly occurred to me that I was enjoying myself immensely. And I wondered if I could actually get the motor started.
Feeling more than a little foolish, for I was sure the old engine must need a complete overhaul after so many years in storage, I climbed aboard, switched on the gas and ignition and awkwardly pedaled down the drive for all I was worth.
To my utter delight and astonishment, after only a few yards the engine sputtered twice. That encouraged me to pedal even harder. Just as I reached the street the moped coughed once more and spat a cloud
âI suppose,â Aunt Ellen had murmured in final defeat, âthe young women are more liberated now than they were in my day.â She emitted a long sigh and her thin fingers fretted with the pile of needlework in her lap.
âYou know how I feel about motorized contraptions,â her voice trailed away, and I knew she was thinking of my mother, âso promise me that youâll be careful, Susan,â Aunt Ellen had whispered.
Of course I had promised.
And though I frequently did ride it after dark and was probably no more careful on the speedy little motorbike than any other sixteen-year-old experiencing her first intoxicating taste of genuine freedom, I was nevertheless careful enough to avoid ever wrecking the precious Vespa. And, except for the occasional skinned knee, I never did any serious damage to myself, either.
Chapter 9
T he unexpected discovery of my beloved old moped in the carriage house sent all my other plans for the day straight out the window. Because, having been reminded of the delicious feel of the wind in my face and the freedom to roam wherever I chose, including remote spots that no car or even jeep could possibly go, I became determined to get the Vespa running again.
Of course, Iâm now a responsible adult. So at first I very sensibly decided just to get the moped outside and clean it up a little. Then, perhaps in a few days or a week, I told myself, I would put it into the back of the Volvo and take it to a motorcycle dealer in Newport, who might be able to replace the ruined tires and restore the engine to running order.
As it turned out, though, the hardest part of getting the moped running again was extricating it from the carriage house. After an hour of shoving furniture around in the cramped space I finally managed to make a narrow pathway to the door. Then, with some difficulty I pushed the little bike into the sunshine on its flat tires and wiped it off with an old beach towel.
Outside in the daylight, the tires, though slightly worn, appeared to be free of cracks or splits. So I searched the carriage house for a pump but couldnât find one. Then I remembered the Fix-A-Flat can in the emergency kit that Bobby had bought for the Volvo, which I often drive to country auctions in out-of-the-way places.
In the trunk of the car I found the flat repair kit, which turned out to contain nothing more than a can of compressed air laced with some sticky substance. I shot a long blast into each of the mopedâs tires which, to my great surprise, both instantly fattened up and held.
Relieved of the dirt and cobwebs and with its tires inflated the bike looked almost as good as new. The gas tank, however, was empty. Then I vaguely recalled that each year before going away to school I had always drained the gas, along with the water from the cigarette-pack-sized battery. A few more minutes of rummaging in the carriage house produced half a can of the gas used for the lawn mower and a plastic bottle of oil. And the partially full bottle of mineral water that Iâd left in the Volvoâs front seat was more than enough to fill the tiny battery case to overflowing.
Having accomplished all of that, I stood back to admire my handiwork. My nails were split and greasy, my clothes were stained with sweat and my hair a dusty tangle. But it suddenly occurred to me that I was enjoying myself immensely. And I wondered if I could actually get the motor started.
Feeling more than a little foolish, for I was sure the old engine must need a complete overhaul after so many years in storage, I climbed aboard, switched on the gas and ignition and awkwardly pedaled down the drive for all I was worth.
To my utter delight and astonishment, after only a few yards the engine sputtered twice. That encouraged me to pedal even harder. Just as I reached the street the moped coughed once more and spat a cloud
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