A Story About Geno And I

I hate to tell this story. But I'm going to, just to show how serious Geno and I are about never coming to blows.



A long time ago, I had a racing motorcycle. It was very powerful and very fast. Geno and I had spent the night in a local bar. Partaking of pretty much everything. At closing time Geno thought it would be a good idea to move the party to his house. I had a better idea. I thought we should go racing. And a few other guys at the bar seconded the motion. One fella had a very big and very fast bike. He challenged me. His was bigger than mine (the motor, dammit!). But mine was a factory racer. It was on. We raced, and I easily beat him. He was bewildered. He had the bigger bike. His exact words were, "First he was here, then he was up there, then he was gone!".

Here is a photo of a similar bike, the fastest in it's day. And mine was modified. I was, after all, a racer.

I was extremely pleased with myself, and drunk. I decided a show would be in order to celebrate my victory. So, in front of Geno's house, I lit it up. Engine screaming, tire smoking, it looked spectacular. For several hundred feet. Then I hit a ridge in the center of the road. It threw the bike sideways violently. I compensated as best as my drunken abilities would allow. Not good enough, it swung out the other way entirely too fast. And down I went. I was probably doing about 70. And it hurt. The entire left side of the bike was gone. And my entire left side matched. Dislocated shoulder, busted head, large pieces of me missing due to the grinding action of the road and so on. Geno picked up what was left of me and carried me into his house. I fought him, saying get the bike first. He did go back for my bike, but he seemed to think I was more important.

After a long patch up session including butterflies to hold my head together and a mile of tape and gauze, as well as Geno pulling as hard as he could to pull my arm back down to my shoulder (I couldn't go to the hospital, I was drunk), I just wanted to go home. This is where Geno and I didn't see eye to eye. He said he was too drunk to take me home and I wasn't going anywhere on my own. I begged to differ. I told him I was going to ride my bike home. He said the left side of the bike was gone. I told him that was fine by me as my left side didn't work anyway. He laughed. I said I was serious. He wouldn't let me. And here is where I made the stupidest move of my life. I was dating a girl at the time, she was beautiful, but crazy. I knew everyone envied me. So, trying to piss Geno off in hopes that he would let me go home (I was drunk, remember?), I accused him of going after her behind my back. I knew it wasn't true, but that is one of the dirtiest things a friend can accuse another friend of doing. I figured it would make him so mad, he wouldn't care what happened to me. He thought about knocking me out, for my own good (and I would have thanked him later if he had), but he couldn't bring himself to hit me. So he threw my keys over in a field where he figured I would never find them in the dark. And he went into his house to get away from me. Can't blame him, I was being an asshole. But I was injured and stripped of my dignity due to my own stupidity, and I just wanted to go home. And I felt bad for accusing Geno of something I knew wasn't true.

He told everyone that I would probably pass out in the field looking for my keys. Then he went to bed.
A short time later he heard my bike start up. He came flying out of the house to stop me, but he was too late. It was a fast bike, even with one arm. Torn up and patched up, me and the bike rode home, a fifteen mile ride. Without Geno's patching, I probably would have bled to death. Drunk and busted up on a wrecked bike, I somehow made it, useless arm and bloody leg hanging off the side.

Geno, you should have knocked me out twice! But you couldn't do it. And to tell the truth, neither could I.