Picking a fight with a motorcycle? Are you THAT insecure in your masculinity????

I’m minding my own business, cruising at speed limit +5 on my way to work. Got my tunes streaming and having a better attitude than a human on the morning commute should legally have. I’m actually ecstatic. For some reason this morning riding hits the spot waaaay down in my soul somewhere and I’m pretty much feeling fine. I turn right onto the Parkway and get hung up at the first light. I get in the left lane and park myself behind an old dirty white pickup truck after practicing my slow race… I do that a lot, to see if I can procrastinate putting a foot down and make it through without stopping. It’s good practice. I beat my hubby at it every time. Comes to thinking about it, the next time some punk on a crotch rocket challenges me to a race, I’ll tell them: “Ok, follow the leader. You ready?” and then, after I watch them fall over, I give ‘em the queenie wave and get the hell outta there. LOL Seriously, I’ve watched peeps in the parking lot at the last bike night… because I’m always trying to figure out if I’m making an idiot out of my two-wheeled self. I don’t think I have anything to worry about there. So, I’m sitting behind this pickup, there’s two cars in front of him, and another four cars in the right lane next to us. It’s filling up behind me, too. The light finally changes and we all take off. Well, no. The cars in the right lane start moving as expected and the three cars ahead of me are creeping along after a slight hesitation. I end up in a gaggle of impatient cagers which is caused by the car in front of Mr. Dirty Truck pacing a van in the right lane. And also the late mergers whose lane’s about to disappear. We’re going 10 under the speed limit. What is up with that??? This is highly irregular. Of course, it starts the inevitable. The various cars now are all jostling for position to somehow get past this annoying little hold up. I find myself switching position in my lane back and forth myself, I’m getting impatient and I want to extract myself out of this death trap. The sheet metal to asphalt ratio is way off and I’m not amused. I hate this crap, this is dangerous and I don’t want to be here. I don’t like travelling in packs. Period. I’m also really close to Mr. Dirty Truck, I’m practically sniffing his bumper. I’ve got my middle finger riding shotgun on the brake lever and I’m ready for anything. Bring it on. I’m in attack mode. I gotta get outta here! I can’t see anything in front of me either. I’m following way too close, but this isn’t a situation that would lend itself to increasing my following distance. I have a feeling I’d just have some other car squeezing into my safety cushion as soon as it’s barely a car length in size. I see an opening between two cars, and I go for the hole. Yup. I lane-split, well technically I didn’t since the cars were offset, but I’m sure the peeps in either car don’t see it that way. I give it some gas and leave the gaggle of unhappy morning commuters behind me. Before I know it, Mr. Dirty Truck has caught up with me. I’m still in the left lane and he passes me on the right. I’m going 65 in a 55. After he passes me, he immediately gets in the left lane in front of me and hits the brakes. Hard. WTF? This caught me off guard. I totally did not expect that. What did I ever do to this guy? He’s got his window rolled down, I see a hairy, tanned arm sticking out and a middle-aged unshaven dude with a raggedy-ass beard in his driver side mirror. Middle-aged old dude in a beat up old dirty truck. Great. This spells trouble with a capital F’ing T. I get on the brakes to avoid rear-ending this douche bag, then think to myself: ‘What the heck, you don’t have to put up with this ‘hole!’ and toss a quick glance over my right shoulder, swerve and gun it, and go around him once again. This time I’m giving myself a better lead, too. The Fat Lady does make short work out of getaways. I don’t even bother downshifting. A few minutes on down the road, I get into the left turn lane nice and early, and apparently I wasn’t watching my mirrors because before I know it here is Mr. Dirty Truck cutting me off and again hitting the skids. Now I’m freaking mad as hell. I execute a quick-stop with all four paws and come to a halt inches past his bumper on the left side. I could kick his taillight out with my brake foot. I consider for a brief moment, but dismiss the idea with some effort. Papa taught me better than that. I’m still pissed though. I can barely keep myself constrained. What the hell did I do? He couldn’t possibly be mad at me for riding his butt earlier? Hell, I wouldn’t have even left a damn dent in his tailgate if I had run into him… could he be pissed about the method of extraction I used? I guess one could read that as an act of aggression. Did he take something I did or did not do as a personal offense? Why the hell is he risking killing a human being with his antics? He’s betting his continued freedom on my reaction time and riding skills? Wow! Dude really must be ready for three hots and a cot courtesy of the feds. I mean you’re messing with a total n00b here, retard! But I don’t give a flip. I have better things to do than spare some poor cager’s feelings and worry about ‘street etiquette’ when I’m elbow to elbow with the morning cager crowd, caffeinated and irritated and still half asleep, yapping on their cell phones and painting their damn finger nails. You know, [insert your city here]’s finest. I stay where I am, cockeyed and almost kissing his rear quarter panel and give him the stink eye by way of his side mirror. I know he can see me, he’s staring back at me. Asshole! We finally get moving, as the light turns green. When he gets to the middle of his turn, he goes a little wide. I can’t help myself. I turn the Fat Lady in, roll it on, and blow past him on the inside. Oh, and I nail it, too. I mean it’s one of those perfect turns. Smooth and everything’s just the way it should be. Perfection! I stare at him hard as I’m doing so, grinning like an ass, because THIS feels good. Ha! You fucktard! I want to flip him off, but that would mean letting go of the throttle, and I can’t use my inside hand either, leaned over too far to pull instead of push (or at least I haven’t figured that out yet at this angle.) Not that he ever got the point… really I didn’t have a point other than showing him that he can’t mess with somebody on two wheels, we’ve got options you haven’t even thought of, and we’re not afraid to use ‘em either. Mess with me dickhole, and I just leave your stupid ass sitting there holding your… ummm holding your wounded ego in your hands. Wounded ego, yeah, that’s it. Now go home and rip on motorcyclists some more. Those ‘holes on them crotch rockets, how they should be banned and have no business on the public streets. I know, I know. That little maneuver didn’t really help the rep any. But damn! It felt good. I think, you Sir, should be forced to take the MSF beginner’s course and then be sentenced to one month of crotch rocketing it to work every day, rain or shine. You’ll get the point then, I’m sure (if you make it out alive that is). So next time you see a motorcyclist riding aggressive and take personal offense to this, maybe you should think about it, really think it through and assess the situation (if you can get off your phone long enough to pay attention to the traffic around you that is.) Maybe, just maybe, we’re doing that to stay safe and out of harm’s way. Sometimes the way we have to do that isn’t pretty, but neither is having your body parts scraped off the road side. I know I’ve seen it in real life. Not pretty at all. Makes you hang over the guard rail and toss your cookies. Remember, that most of us aren’t the jackasses you hear about (well at least not 99% of the time) and see doing wheelies and stoppies in traffic and blow through town doing 120mph engaged in some testosterone fuelled squid race. And to address the subject of speeding while extracting: Kiss my hump! I rather pay the fine than risk road rash and stitches. Apparently, the cop that I encountered behind me on I-20E subscribed to the same philosophy, since I was sure he was going to nab me for going 75 in a 55. I didn’t slow down to the flow of traffic until I found myself some ‘airy’ piece of asphalt between two gaggles of cars. He stayed with me for over two miles, and had no problem with what I was doing. He must have been a rider himself. J

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