Another thankless Monday morning heading to workaday hell surrounded by imbeciles, told what to do by overpaid paper pushers devoid of common sense, knowing it will be at least five days of this shit before a brief reprieve. Couldn't take the truck because it needs repairs I can't afford yet, and who wants to drive anyways?
The rain comes down harder, roads slick. Watch the painted stripes on the crosswalks, those things are treacherous. That's all I need to do is fall down, break a leg. Not enough sick time to cover that and they certainly won't let me work in a cast. Avoid Lakeside Ave. because they've got the pavement grooved and there is loose gravel and debris everywhere from construction is impossible to see now that it's dark as hell because of adjusting the clocks. Is it just me or are these new green lights so blinding you can't see what's on the other side of them? Hope nobody ran the red in the other direction.
Goddamnit, I knew that asshole was going to turn left in front of me, so much in a hurry to join the rat race on I-95. How the fuck did he not see the twin headlights of the Bandit that I keep on high beam at all times? Without fail at least one shithead tries to kill me daily, but it's usually more like three. You get to where you can sense it. Used to make me so angry I wanted to punch out their windows, now I just give them a one finger salute and get the hell gone. Fuck them.
Water covers the face shield, so I have to raise it to see. Icy darts stab my cheeks and retinas. Keep blinking, squint. Drop the face shield, no dice. Raise it again, deal with the million tiny stabbings.
If it rains any harder the K&N gauze air filters will fill with water and try to drown the motor. I squeeze my knees tighter to try and keep them dry.
Finally arrive at work, but the ridiculous automatic gate never works in the rain, so off to the other entrance, nearly get rear-ended by a Frito Lay truck. At least I get in. Oh look, the designated motorcycle spots are taken up by contractor trucks, have to park somewhere else and get a ticket. Spectacular. Damn near fall over with the bike when the boot slips on the slimy centerstand. I tear something in my chest during a herculean effort to keep the 500 pound pig from smacking tar, but succeed. It's only pain. Fumble with the bike cover wondering if anything will be dry by the time I get to my desk. Who cares? It's only water and if people think I've wet myself maybe they won't talk to me. Fuck them.
I plop down, a sodden spectacle, Adam's ale still dripping along my nose. Peeling off the layers, I look for dry ones underneath and start my day knowing I am the luckiest man alive.
I ride motorcycles seven days a week.
|Not me, but a semi-accurate portrayal.|