Categories: all aviation Building a Biplane bicycle gadgets misc motorcycle theater
For various and sundry reasons, I was on the motorcycle today. I finally extricated myself from work around 5:45, and headed for home. This is a silly ride, since I now live 5 minutes walk from work, but I had the bike, and wanted to get it home.
I travelled by scenic byway for the most part, but the last 1/4 mile was by the relatively heavily-used Bridge Way. Bridge Way is not only busy, it is relieved by a short traffic light at Fremont Ave, meaning that backups are common, particularly at commute times.
So, background laid. I left turn onto Bridge, and match up with traffic. Into the right lane -- the left lane railroads you onto Aurora southbound, which I definitely don't want. Traffic comes to a stop ahead, but I get through the light before Aurora. But traffic is stopped.
I notice that there's a truck in my left blindspot which hasn't passed me yet. He probably wants over, but I wasn't sufficiently aware of him not-passing until I was stopped with no room for him. Tough luck, I guess.
I look up as he passes, and see a puffy, fat face with a wannabe-policeman moustache and tousled brown hair sitting at the steering wheel. He's driving one of the recent-model trucks, maybe a Ford, with the step-side bed; the kind that makes me think of ex-frat boys with baseball caps and beer bellies. He inches forward until he's wedged his truck in between the island on the left, and the Subaru Forrester on the right. The Forrester doesn't move, because, of course, there's nowhere for it to go.
Suddenly, I'm aware of the loud, barking sound of a sportbike with a racing exhaust ("OFF-ROAD USE ONLY") behind me. I hear it pull up, and then it's next to me. I look over.
"Yo jamba wonga doo hee?" asks the rider. I have no idea what he actually said, but I'm sure he's asking permission to pull in front of me in the traffic line. I shrug non-committally, because I know it won't matter what I say; he would pull in front of me anyway. In he pulls, the exhaust yipping and snarling at me. I see that he's wearing thin-looking bowling shoes with no socks, nylon running shorts, a T-shirt, a full face helmet, and chunky, high-bling motorcycling gloves. His one-strap backpack rests listlessly across his back. Classy.
He sees the truck wedged in ahead of us. I can see his helmet move as he checks it out.
The traffic starts moving. Truck-man has sufficiently cowed the Subaru driver, who sits still and waves him in. The truck wobbles forward, into the newly empty space. I see Mr. Sportbike shake his head in despair at the rude truck driver.
He rides off, with his right blinker incessantly signalling, from back when he pulled in front of me. His mind is full of despair at the state of drivers today.
Posted at 18:33 permanent link category: /motorcycle
Categories: all aviation Building a Biplane bicycle gadgets misc motorcycle theater