The Incredible Shrinking Woman

Holy Helena, I must have shrunk an inch or so over night. This morning, I rolled down the drive, bounced over the curb, but didn’t have enough momentum to make it up the crowned part of the street to get myself turned in the right direction, so I got stuck. Two things dawned on me:

  1. The gel seat makes the bike taller.
  2. My racing boots make my inseam shorter.

Bad combo. Bad! Bad! Bad! So, I was sitting there contemplating my conundrum. On my way to work, trapped on the left side of the street by a tall seat and a set of short legs on a damn incline. No room for a full-lock tight-ass, counterbalanced suicide turn from hell either. Hmmmm…. I never think shit through on three hours of sleep around 05:40 in the morning. I push backwards on my tippy toes. Nothing. The Fat Lady won’t budge. 573 pounds of fuggen incooperative inert mass of plastic and steel. Arrrrgh! Another push and a yank on the clip-ons. My fingers slip off the clutch lever and I kill her. What the hell? Since when am I in gear on my way down my driveway? Did I accidentally put it in gear? I do leave the clutch lever pulled in, even when in neutral. Couldn’t be, could it? Freakin’ new rearsets! Ugh! I look around… at least I haven’t an audience. This is highly irregular and embarrassing as hell. Push, *grunt*, yank, move a fraction of an inch, brake to hold; push, *grunt*, yank, move another fraction of an inch, brake to hold; push, *grunt*,… I actually have to take a break in the middle. I’m a dumbass. I finally get myself to a spot where I have enough room to turn and get on my way. Something’s gotta give here:

  • I could lose the seat, but damn it looks so sweet.
  • I could lose the boots, go back to my combat-style FXRGs. Screw that! Besides, they would look so awesome with my leathers. REALLY! Nuh-uh.
  • I could slam the suspension down an inch and call it good. Oh, hell no! That’s just asking for trouble there. Besides I like the way the Fat Lady conducts herself. All I need right now — on top of every thing else — is a bunch of handling quirks. meh.

I just can’t win. It’s a lovers’ quarrel. The Fat Lady and I are no longer BFFs… no longer in synch, no longer on speaking terms, we are estranged… shit, what’s next? A trial separation? Me and her, we need an arbiter. I’m gonna have to show that damn ‘Busa that she IS NOT THE BOSS OF ME!

…wait…nevermind…she is…

Screw this! I’m getting one of these:

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