Operation Rescue Red Rider

I just got out of work and I hit the 5 home from Burbank (a.k.a. the Nazi state). I am dog tired and decide to pick up the Red Rider tomorrow morning. Yet the nagging persists, so I hook through downtown to make sure the bike is still stationed in front of Hotel Cecil. I veer a left on 7th and a second left on Main. *GASP* Man down! Man down! The bike is lying on the sidewalk. This is terrible; it is now a rescue mission. So, I pull up to the taxi zone and scurry towards the scene. Basket. Check. Faux flowers. Check. Body. Check. Wheels. Check. Whew! She's okay...so I rush to unlock her from her shackles. Hmm, she's bigger than I thought. As I pass a Cecil doorman I say in passing: "Hope she fits in the Honda." "You need a hand?" "Sure, if you don't mind." Then the struggle ensues. Thirty minutes later and every possible position exhausted the ol' girl just refuses to squeeze in. If only by inches. Both the doorman and myself are exhausted and covered in black tire dirt. I make an emergency call to a pal with a Land Rover...she's half a dinner and 45 minutes away. So, I park the car pick up the bike, tip the doorman, and decide to make my way to a bar. I reckoned that I wasn't in need of a drink but that I undoubtedly deserved a scotch. Now sometimes I forget that I am only 5' 5 & 3/4" and it certainly didn't cross my mind that the previous rider had some height on me. So I mount. Oh the horror! How can I stop if my feet can't touch the ground? I bite it. I bite it hard. Panic. Poor bike? Is she okay? I love her. She's pretty. And she reminds me of my friend who is not living in L.A. anymore. Sure, Nico has only been gone a couple days but I am stricken with an air of melancholy...and an urgent sense of overprotection towards the Red Rider. Luckily the cherry red finish is unscathed because my body cushioned her fall. I position her to my right and as though leading a prize show horse down Main Street make my way towards 4th and the sweet sanctuary of Pete's. I choose Pete's for the fact that the bar is just a quick glace over my shoulder to the newly installed ironwork patio area where I could hitch the bike. One Chivas one the rocks, two "hello sweethearts", 10 pages into my book later, the rest of the rescue party arrives. “Is that Nico’s bike?” “Yep.” “Aww, I’m glad I can help pick up her bike.” “I’m glad you can help too…damn small ass Honda’s.” We manage to wrangle the Red Rider into the back, pick up my car, and head off into the sunset. Okay, the sun had already set but we did manage to hit Sunset Blvd and make it back to my pad in West Hollywood. Where the Red Rider now rests in a covered parking garage.