[Part 2 in a series. Read Part 1 here!]
We first took off the sidecovers and fuel tank. With the rear seats folded, we could crank the handlebars all the way to the left and slot the motorcycle in on its side. The rear wheel barely fit with the hatch closed, threatening to put a dent in the plastic shrouding the rear hatch. A drop of gasoline leaked out of a drain tube somewhere—enough to fill the entire cabin up with fumes. The carpeted floor mats were blotted with oil, fuel and grease stains that the rental agency would be livid about. I sat in the back, up against the passenger-side door. There was no room otherwise. “Boy,” said Don, as we began to pull out of the driveway, “you must have some awesome parents.” And on that note we drove the 10 hours across I-80 with my new acquisition in the back, with the windows wide open and the fan cranked to maximum power. The bike fit surprisingly well in the van, like a set of gasoline-filled matryoshka dolls, and I had room to duck my head to avoid being seen by cops wondering why I wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. We finally pulled into our driveway at 3 in the morning. For someone who had literally spent all day sitting down, I was too tired to do anything. I stared at the motorcycle and the moonlight glinting off the headlight. That night we left it in the van; we were too tired from the drive to lift it out. But tomorrow, I would get to work.