Most of my motorcycle stories end with an ambulance. This is not one of those stories.
A certain measure of discretion is necessary, you see, as the motorcycle in this story did not belong to me. In fact, it was a Yamaha FJ1200 that belonged to Lotho and it was unbelievably blazing fast except it wasn't as fast as his FZR1000. Lotho is an exceptionally dangerous individual!
This ride started out sanely. I was tooling down the Interstate in the fast lane, pacing the traffic, running maybe seventy mph, giving myself lots of headroom, arm room, leg room, toe room, prevention of being squished room, just riding the vibe and .... dayum .... feeling like my junk has twelve thousand horsepower, mama! But you stay cool and just dig on that ride, cowboy.
Until you notice some asshole approaching and then tailgating you.
By definition, anyone who tailgates a motorcycle is an asshole. If anything at all goes wrong, the bike goes down, the rider gets squished, and the asshole in the cage will just bitch about the blood on his paint. Definite asshole.
I have the room, I know I'm clear, so I light it up a bit and settle in at 130 mph. I figure, ok, goodbye asshole and I settle back in around 70 mph with the rest of the flow. Everything is copacetic, yes.
No way. After a while, the asshole finally catches up and he's climbing my ass again. OK, now he's not just an asshole but an asshole with an attitude. It is definitely time to immediately vacate this asshole situation.
I repeat my previous and light it up. Time to get fast for a while. Run it up 130 mph and hang with it. The road is open and the quality is good. You are now entering the Asshole-Free Zone.
Um, no.
After some while he finally catches up again and this time I'm fed-up. I slow so he can come alongside while ready to hammer it if he so much as burps. As he pulls up beside me, I can see him waving his badge at me. It's an off-duty cop wanting to pull me over and he is one angry son of a bitch! He's all sputtering like he's shouting at me and he's waving his arm around. Dude, try Valium or reefer or, here's a wild tip: some other job.
Of course I did what any citizen would: I introduced his extreme assholeness to Mister Bird and left the vicinity at a high rate of speed that I'm sure did no end of good for his sex life that evening.
You do know Mister Bird, yes? If you have driven very far on any American road, you have almost certainly met him too.
A certain measure of discretion is necessary, you see, as the motorcycle in this story did not belong to me. In fact, it was a Yamaha FJ1200 that belonged to Lotho and it was unbelievably blazing fast except it wasn't as fast as his FZR1000. Lotho is an exceptionally dangerous individual!
This ride started out sanely. I was tooling down the Interstate in the fast lane, pacing the traffic, running maybe seventy mph, giving myself lots of headroom, arm room, leg room, toe room, prevention of being squished room, just riding the vibe and .... dayum .... feeling like my junk has twelve thousand horsepower, mama! But you stay cool and just dig on that ride, cowboy.
Until you notice some asshole approaching and then tailgating you.
By definition, anyone who tailgates a motorcycle is an asshole. If anything at all goes wrong, the bike goes down, the rider gets squished, and the asshole in the cage will just bitch about the blood on his paint. Definite asshole.
I have the room, I know I'm clear, so I light it up a bit and settle in at 130 mph. I figure, ok, goodbye asshole and I settle back in around 70 mph with the rest of the flow. Everything is copacetic, yes.
No way. After a while, the asshole finally catches up and he's climbing my ass again. OK, now he's not just an asshole but an asshole with an attitude. It is definitely time to immediately vacate this asshole situation.
I repeat my previous and light it up. Time to get fast for a while. Run it up 130 mph and hang with it. The road is open and the quality is good. You are now entering the Asshole-Free Zone.
Um, no.
After some while he finally catches up again and this time I'm fed-up. I slow so he can come alongside while ready to hammer it if he so much as burps. As he pulls up beside me, I can see him waving his badge at me. It's an off-duty cop wanting to pull me over and he is one angry son of a bitch! He's all sputtering like he's shouting at me and he's waving his arm around. Dude, try Valium or reefer or, here's a wild tip: some other job.
Of course I did what any citizen would: I introduced his extreme assholeness to Mister Bird and left the vicinity at a high rate of speed that I'm sure did no end of good for his sex life that evening.
You do know Mister Bird, yes? If you have driven very far on any American road, you have almost certainly met him too.
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