So I was feeling pretty brave today, and decided I needed a toodle onthe Zuma. It's been rainy lately, and I'm a big chicken anyway, so I haven't been practicing as I should. Besides, we were out of milk.
So I strapped on my helmet and jacket and gloves, and left on two wheels. As I mentioned, I'm a big chicken... so I was a little nervous about going out unescorted. Besides, I'm about as coordinated as a fish on a mountaintop. And now it shows.
Yep. I laid it down. "Yard Saled" my poor scooter, if you will. Luckily it only goes about 45 downhill... and I wasn't going downhill. I made a left hand turn at a stop sign, and took it a little too wide. So of course I panicked... and twisted the throttle instead of just leaning more (like a normal person would do). The extra boost didn't help my trajectory any... and we left the road. On a curb. Into a mailbox. And I slid for a bit. On my chin. Into some bushes.
I'm OK... a little bruised, and I don't think my ego will ever be the same. My jacket is filthy... I have dirt and grass in my zipper. And the helmet took a pretty good hit (but better that than my face). But all in all more embarrassed than anything else. It's a residential neighborhood, you see... and there were people out front of their house. People who promptly called 911 as soon as my poor little Zuma connected with the mailbox.
So here I am, in the bushes, covered in dirt, bruised up, and now I have an audience.
And the ambulance shows up quickly, since the fire house is very nearby. Closely followed by the firetruck... and two motorcycle cops. *sigh*
The EMT's asked if I was OK. I told them I was a little bruised up, but I didn't think there was anyting major - I was wearing all of my gear, after all. So they talked to me for a minute, and the cops gave me some support: "Don't take it too hard - it happens to everyone at least once." "At least you weren't going too fast and had on all your gear." "It's not IF, it's WHEN."
Then I called my dear hubby... who promptly laughed at my silly a$$.
He talked me down for a few minutes, got a full description of the "accident"... and then told me to get back on that pony and ride it home. (He was actually supportive and caring , but I don't want to blow his cover).
After a few minutes of mild shaking (and giggling like an idiot), I checked out my "big beast"... dusted a little bit of the dirt off... and rode it home. I was feeling a little wobbly by the time I got home - the adrenaline was wearing off. But I still had to clean my war wounds.
Yikes that hurt! And I didn't even truly get road rash - just slightly advanced grass burns! But I'm OK. Bruised and battered (but not deep fried). And embarrassed.
So I strapped on my helmet and jacket and gloves, and left on two wheels. As I mentioned, I'm a big chicken... so I was a little nervous about going out unescorted. Besides, I'm about as coordinated as a fish on a mountaintop. And now it shows.
Yep. I laid it down. "Yard Saled" my poor scooter, if you will. Luckily it only goes about 45 downhill... and I wasn't going downhill. I made a left hand turn at a stop sign, and took it a little too wide. So of course I panicked... and twisted the throttle instead of just leaning more (like a normal person would do). The extra boost didn't help my trajectory any... and we left the road. On a curb. Into a mailbox. And I slid for a bit. On my chin. Into some bushes.
I'm OK... a little bruised, and I don't think my ego will ever be the same. My jacket is filthy... I have dirt and grass in my zipper. And the helmet took a pretty good hit (but better that than my face). But all in all more embarrassed than anything else. It's a residential neighborhood, you see... and there were people out front of their house. People who promptly called 911 as soon as my poor little Zuma connected with the mailbox.
So here I am, in the bushes, covered in dirt, bruised up, and now I have an audience.
And the ambulance shows up quickly, since the fire house is very nearby. Closely followed by the firetruck... and two motorcycle cops. *sigh*
The EMT's asked if I was OK. I told them I was a little bruised up, but I didn't think there was anyting major - I was wearing all of my gear, after all. So they talked to me for a minute, and the cops gave me some support: "Don't take it too hard - it happens to everyone at least once." "At least you weren't going too fast and had on all your gear." "It's not IF, it's WHEN."
Then I called my dear hubby... who promptly laughed at my silly a$$.
After a few minutes of mild shaking (and giggling like an idiot), I checked out my "big beast"... dusted a little bit of the dirt off... and rode it home. I was feeling a little wobbly by the time I got home - the adrenaline was wearing off. But I still had to clean my war wounds.
Yikes that hurt! And I didn't even truly get road rash - just slightly advanced grass burns! But I'm OK. Bruised and battered (but not deep fried). And embarrassed.
