Epilogue: Operation Rescue Motorcycle

Sagebrush, Saguaro, and Sweat
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Friday, December 1st, 2017

I wake up feeling great after a 10-hour sleep in a nice, comfortable bed in a warm house. Today's goal: rescue the motorcycle from the woman who thinks I'm a spy for the mafia. We exchanged texts yesterday; I was trying to delicately figure out when she would be at her house so I could time my arrival to avoid her. I didn't dare ask her if the garage code is still the same, not wanting to tip her off to my plan to just get the bike and take off. I'll arrive a half hour before her and if the code has changed I'll just have to deal with her face to face.

My Uber car drops me off in front of the house. She's not there, phew. The garage code works! Another phew. I pull the cover off of the motorcycle, everything looks okay. It starts right up. I'm thankful that I packed up everything neatly on the motorcycle before I went traveling on the bicycle, ready to go, with nothing left in the house. I have a moment's hesitation wheeling out of the garage, a vague feeling of guilt at escaping like this, but I got myself into this situation by being too nice in the first place. I'm not responsible for other people's mental health issues. I ride off with a big sigh of relief.

Later in the day I get a ten-part text message from guess who. I don't even read the whole thing, I just reply with thanks for storing the motorcycle. Best not to engage with this madness.

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The motorcycle is safely ensconced in a storage unit where hopefully no one will think I'm spying on them.

The bicycle will join the motorcycle in the storage unit while I'm away in Europe for the holidays. Sleep tight!