....and why San Diegans are sometimes okay.
Went to my folks' house to drop off some awesome, fresh caught sand bass
I got yesterday. When I was leaving their house, halfway down the hill
they live on, I felt my left leg was damp. Ooh. Gas.
Turned the tank off and putted back up the hill, where I cut the split
plastic line that goes from the tank to the fuel filter. That seemed to
work. Just north of Washington street on I-5, the line split again.
It was dark. Traffic was crazy. I put the blinkers on and watched cars
nearly hit my bike. Break in traffic, I pushed the bike to the edge of
the offramp to Washington street. It was dark. I got my flashlight out
of my saddlebag. Hmph. No juice. Note to self, buy more batteries.
A nice couple pulled up behind me. They'd seen me at the off ramp,
exited, and drove around again to help. Guy had a knife and a light, so
I rummaged through my panniers and found the spare fuel line I always
carry. Cop showed up about then, and asked if I needed a tow truck. I
waved the fuel line at him and said, "No, I just need to get this old
split plastic line off my fuel filter." He whipped out a knife and cut
the old tubing away. I hooked up the filter to the new tubing, fired up
the bike, and all was copacetic. Thanked the couple and the cop who
stopped for me, redonned my DOT approved helmet and took the Washington
street off ramp, getting back on the freeway that way rather than try to
pull out into traffic. Police officer advised that I do that, and I agreed.
People here can be nice. The police can be your friend. I'm really glad
I carry extra parts in my bags.
My left leg still smells like gas. But I like it.
--
barb
Chaplain, ARSCCwdne
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