Sunday, March 24, 2013

Terror on the Road

Salutations Typospherians!

I have a guest blogger tonight, my lovely hubs, the one and only Doomsday Machine! Enjoy!

Picture it:
Beautiful day. High seventies, mellow breeze, clear skies, and lots of other bikers on the road tossing out smiles and greetings. Little traffic, mindful drivers, fairly smooth roads. A picture perfect ride through town...until...

You know that moment, as you drive/ride down the freeway, where a big truck up ahead kicks up a rock? You watch it rapidly grow larger as distance closes, the brief moment seeming like an eternity as you realize things are about to turn bad. Thwack! Crack! Pap! Oww!

...Now, imagine that it came at an angle, not from a truck, but from a tree. NOW imagine that it's not a rock at all, but a PISSED-THE-FRACK-OFF WASP! No, wait! It gets even better! This Pissed-The-Frack-Off wasp completely misses the front of the motorcycle. It completely misses the full face of your very protective Shoei helm. Instead, it slams right into the middle of your collar bone, right where the collar of your shirt hangs open, and falls
RIGHT INTO YOUR DAMN CLOTHES!

FORTY FIVE MILES PER HOUR, ON A BLASTED LUNCHBREAK, AND A PISSED-THE-FRACK-OFF WASP IS FLIPPING OUT INSIDE OF MY SHIRT REPEATEDLY STINGING THE EVER-LOVING BAJEEZUS OUT OF ME!


 I pulled over really quick, flipped my killswitch, and frantically ripped my own shirt apart on the side of a busy road at 1:30 Saturday afternoon. I'm sure every passerby had an interesting story to tell, once they arrived at their destination. I know I did. Let it be known that my darling, beloved Madame Mohawk (Anna), laughed at my misfortune...and does so even now as I type.






F my life.


--Doomsday Machine
____________




Hubs lovely Indian clone, a 2000 Kawasaki VN-1500J Drifter.

3 comments:

  1. Yoickx!

    Reminds me of when my girlfriend and I were taking a multiday bike ride across Iowa (that's bicycles). By the second day's afternoon we were both exhausted and I think she was starting to hallucinate. That's when a bee flew down her shirt.

    She still married me. -- ?!

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    1. Now that right there is love, Richard! :-D

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  2. The best I can do to commiserate is to relate how similar being hit in the leg by a June Bug, at [elevated] higway speeds, is to being shot with a .45 caliber slug. Thankfully, my machine was stable enough to mind itself while I wondered if my shin had actually been shattered.

    For all the freedom and joy involved in motorcycling, there are penalties for being exposed to so much nature.

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