When two or more are gathered in my name…. a race breaks out! REDUX!

I’m getting off work, and am being intercepted by the Security Commander at the gate as I’m badging out, as per usual, and have to -again- argue my point of ‘No, you can’t ride it.’ At least we’re down to the end of the driveway and back. Maybe eventually he’ll give up, but I doubt it. He’s having too much fun. Then I have to beat three dudes off of The Fat Lady with a big stick, then we have a BS session. Apparently, word’s gotten around that Charles (the guy who just relieved me in the scale house) is riding a big supersport. Steve, a dude who rides a big Harley and works opposite of me in the plant somewhere is convinced that the Security Commander owns a Hayabusa. There seems to be some mass confusion about who the crotch rocket actually belongs to. This is news to me, and I’m feeling my jaw cracking inside of my helmet. Ha! They’re all amazed, as the truth slowly but surely circulates around, like effluent in an outlet pond. Pardon the pun, but I do work in a chem plant. Enough of that, my ego is stroked nicely and I’ve reached my daily limit of being admired. I’m ready to hop on and go home. This time, I promise myself that I will go the speed limit, so I can make up for that whole Attempted Wheelie in the Second Degree thing from a few days ago. Needless to say, I’ve been promising myself that for a total of six commutes, and nothing has come of it yet. I pull out of the parking lot right ahead of the guy who had his car jumped. He was also the reason those dudes were out there in the first place. I can’t help myself and showboat a little. What’s a Type-A to do when she’s in full view of one of her admirers? Yeah, exactly. Onto the Interstate and off I go. FAST forward… (I’m gonna have to try the speed limit thing again some other time…) I exit onto what I dubbed the ‘Hayabusa Speedway’ after a little friendly show ‘n tell I had with another ‘busa rider a few weeks ago on the way to work. Cloverleaves are my favorite feature of the Interstate system. Especially a nice, clean, constant-radius, positive camber and smooth one like the one I have the pleasure to abuse once daily PRN. This time, I’m in 2nd, hanging way off the inside, head cranked around to the top of the ramp and feeling fine. Dang, this thing is even greater when there’s no cagers on it, who really make me practice my trail braking… I shoulda been in 3rd. Damn! What a waste. Oh well, maybe next time. I exit onto the Hayabusa Speedway and what do I see up ahead? A dude on a crotch rocket. Oh yeah! I gotta go catch up to see what’s what. I catch up with him quickly and luck out that the two traffic lights stay green long enough for me not to get separated prematurely. The Speedway is a three-lane highway with a posted limit of 55. I’m doing about 85 to catch up, then slow inconspicuously and pass him nonchalantly on the right, going about 65. It takes a few seconds, but I hear a down-shift behind me and a high-pitched whine. He blows past me. I slightly crank the throttle and catch up with him, the Fat Lady still purring her normal content purr. I’m at about 4500 RPM, he sounds like he’s bouncing off the red… I don’t know what he rides… can’t make it out, since I’m also dodging cagers at this point, and have my attention all over more important things. I gain on him pretty fast, still haven’t shifted and we’re nearing 115… UCR (Unidentified Crotch Rocket) Kid is maybe 4 bike lengths up ahead making an aggressive lane change to get around a slow moving cager. Apparently, he’s not watching where he’s going. I’m already in the far right lane, since I had seen that one coming way sooner and just blow past the poor guy on four wheels. UCR Kid’s shifting again, slowly pulling away. I’m still aware of the ummm… risk I’m taking here to make a nice juicy donation to the local constabulary and can’t bring myself to grip it and rip it, which reminds me: I look down at the speedo and almost crap my Scorpions. Dang, we’re nearing 125… screw this. What the heck am I doing in a testosterone rush anyway? I’m a girl, for crying out loud, and the poor kid is racing a freaking ‘busa on what can’t be more than a 750. I slow down gradually and pretend that he beat me. At Fort Gordon’s Main Gate, he’s getting in the left turn lane to go on base. I’m in the lane next to his, about five cages back. UCR Kid puts it in neutral and cranes his upper body around to check me out. I can see a slight nodding of his helmet. No way! Dude actually bought it? I almost fall off my bike laughing. I did my civic duty today and supported our troops (well one of them anyway)! The trucker next to me continues to check out my hump. Gawd. This bike is an absolute gold mine of road stories. Not a single boring day hanging with the Fat Lady. And, as a bonus, it makes a girl feel sexy as hell, if she’s clean and sparkly, that is. Unfortunately, I got caught in a thunder storm about 5 minutes later and had to ‘hole up’ at a Shell gas station for about 30 minutes drinking a Diet Coke and eating a grab bag of Tom’s chips. People liked the Fat Lady, even though she was now covered in urea gunk mixed with dirty rain water (not quite so sexy anymore): “Nice bike”, “Cool Ride”, “Is she yours?” – on the inside: “Nah, I’m just sitting here on the curb in full riding gear resting from the walk down here to get a drink and some chips.” A lot of people commented about it being a bummer that it rained. I had to explain that I’m loitering because I wasn’t in the mood for getting struck by lightning and that I don’t care about the rain. Anybody around these parts actually own rain gear? Geez, fair weather bikers. I don’t own rain gear either. I use my waterproof liner in my mesh jacket. Sometimes I get caught without it. But at speed you come home dry, regardless. ;D At any rate… the whole point of this little tale was simple. Here’s another piece of evidence why dudes on crotch rockets amuse me. =D I think I’ll ride my hog to work tomorrow…

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