Evasive Maneuvers

Miss Busa and The Fat Lady

Miss Busa & The Fat Lady: We are cute and innocent. Well, ok, innocent. Totally harmless. How can a girl in a Hello Kitty shirt possibly be dangerous? Look she's got pink stickers on her bike. Totally harmelss. We even look slow. We only take it to the limit. Right there and no further. Pinky swear. 😉


Since I have nothing better to do than write about the ride, let me recount this little marvel of a tale. Wouldn’t before, since I still had this little traffic court thing hanging over me like the Fog of War in a mismatched RPG battle; and my license tag coincidentally spells out the domain name (for the more inquisitive mind) of my blog, which in turn holds all the unforgiving evidence in digital print, photographic and videographic form of the workings of Miss Busa’s criminal mind; like a cracked, filthy bedroom wall holds the beloved pieces of the shrine erected to honor a serial killer’s next victim… so does this blog give testimony to…. WAIT A MINUTE!

<!– With my newly attained legal skills I would like to state for the record: I would like to assert, at this time, that the content of this blog. — May it please the court, the definition of a ‘blog’ is as follows: Blog is Internet jargon for web log, which is akin to an online journal or diary for exhibitionist folks like myself. — that the content of this blog is all fabrication and lies! It is strictly for entertainment purposes only, and as such, needs a proper legal disclaimer, which was added as of now. Further, I am a pathological liar even when I tell the truth. A picture is worth a thousand untrue words and a staged video is worth a thousand untrue photos. I have 2x2x2 words for you: Tabloid journalism, Adobe Photoshop, and Adobe Premiere. –>

I was out riding, enjoying a nice spring day in March, in full race gear (gotta stretch that damn cow hide, it’s still stiff and it’s getting on my nerves), minding my own lane space and not particularly paying attention to the instrument cluster, which is part of the reprogramming efforts of breaking my recently developed love affair between the gauges and my eyeballs. So it does not surprise me that my pleasant ride is rudely interrupted by the annoying flash of blue lights and a quick blip of a police siren. Shit! I look at my gauges. 70 indicated in a 45. Motherfrakker! Not again. And not just one cop, but two: a Sheriff and what looks like State Patrol, but I can’t be certain. What the hell is this? Somebody put out the fresh donut sign? Gawd! Not again! I instinctively slow down while I’m cussing up a storm inside my helmet and keeping track of the two units in my mirrors. Hell no! I am so not stopping! I’m not… shit! I have to! No. You should. Ah, fuck this; gawd, you’re such an idiot, shit! Stop! Get the hell out of here. Don’t stop! OMG! There’s traffic behind me and they slow, obviously looking for a place to turn around to follow me. What the hell is wrong with you? They already caught you going what? 63 in a 45? I accelerate back to my previous speed of 70 indicated. The road is sweeping curves, so I lose sight of the cops fairly quickly. My heart is entering a state of arrhythmia. I have to fight the constant impulse to speed up. My brain is going into overdrive. Holy shit! You’re fleeing. You are now risking an evasion charge on top of going something like 18 over. My anxiety rears its ugly head, so now I’m feeling shaky on the inside in addition to the pounding in my chest and the racing staccato of my brain.

I formulate a game plan… a girly one at that: “I didn’t see you, officer. I would have stopped. By the time I did see you behind me, I couldn’t find a safe place to pull over. No officer, I don’t know how fast I was going, I was practicing a riding skill I have developed problems with. What?!? OMG! You can’t be serious. {at this point I break down in sobs and then start bawling for all it’s worth}. My husband… is…. *sob* so going to….to…*sniffle*… to… oh no…*hangs head* going to be so mad…. at me. *wail*”

I round the last sweeper and am faced with a line of three cars waiting for a newly erected traffic light to change to green. Gawd! Just my luck. I briefly consider making a run for it through the gravel that will soon be a dedicated right turn lane. I dismiss the thought after the visual my logical mind is sending me of a Hayabusa laying on its side with me getting put in cuffs and stuffed into a police cruiser shortly thereafter. I envision myself sitting in a holding tank with a bunch of ugly, fat hookers… at least I’d have my knee pucks for when the jailer comes around… Not good, can’t explain that one away to leave reasonable doubt. While I wait behind the cars, I’m practically staring in my mirrors just waiting to see the coppers put in their flashy, wailing appearance. I’m so nervous, I’m tapping my foot. Oh please, oh please, change to green, I gotta get out of here. I’m starting to sweat. Bullets. The light finally turns, my erratically beating heart is still hammering the inside of my ribcage and my fingers are starting to feel numb. I can’t stand to wait any longer and squeeze by the car in front of me, while he’s waiting for cross traffic to clear. I execute my right turn, and rip it with one last look over my shoulder. No cops in sight, still. Good. My brain still racing, my eyes still searching to the rear. I can’t stay on this road, it’s five lanes, too much traffic and straight as hell, I have got to get out of here. I spot a dump truck to my left. Without so much of a thought I whip it into the suicide lane and execute a quickie left, using the dump truck as a shield. Looking over my shoulder, the rear is still devoid of my friends in gray or blue.

This concludes the evasion. I made two unobserved random turns before the chopper’s in the air. But my nerves are shot. My mental constitution borders on paranoid now and it’s not getting any better. A pickup truck pulls out in front of me and I freak out. Holy crap! Come on, man! He’s going incredibly slow, or so it seems. I got to get the hell out of Dodge! I grip it and rip it and pass him in a no-passing zone. Add one more count to the growing list of infractions. I can’t cope any more, I’m using all my remaining willpower to do the speed limit. Wouldn’t do me no good now to get noticed by some other cop on his way to that imaginary donut shop for a shot of java and a creme-filled whatchamacallit. I take the next available right. Hey, I know this road. Nine more miles of zig-zagging and I arrive at my house, fully expecting the cops to sit there waiting for me. (“Yes, Miss Busa, we know where you live. You are known, and now you are also wanted.”) More paranoia, I remind myself. I pull into my driveway, put the kickstand down, practically jump off The Fat Lady with a half-twist and yank the Bike Barn’s cover over her in one smooth motion, then sprint to my front door, punch in my code and enter in a hurry and slam the door shut. After disarming the alarm, I rip my helmet off, fall to the floor and dissolve into a mad case of the hysterious giggles and the laughter of the kind you will only hear from the insides of padded cells at the insane asylum. Haha! Take that coppers! Woooohooooo! What a rush! Way to stick it to the man! Yeeeehaaaw! Good gawd, I’m mad! Maaaaaaaaad, I tell you! After I calm down, I drag myself to bed to catch my breath and relax and promptly fall asleep in my gear. This much stress is exhausting. Being a fugitive criminal is exhausting. I sleep the sleep of the weary, a three-hour paranoia-induced coma.

Officer M. wasn’t lying about the non-pursuit policy that is in effect in the two counties that I frequent on an almost daily basis. I feel like they could have had me at the traffic light, but I have to assume they aborted as soon as it was clear to them that a.) they couldn’t turn around to follow me quickly enough, and b.) I wasn’t going to pull over.

“He who pulls over gets the ticket.”

~ Officer M. (whose wife made him sell his GSX-R1000 and is condemned to riding a Harley when on duty)


Ditching Plans Leads To A Preoccupation With Ditches

[First off: Everybody is ok, no body(work) got hurt. Nothing happened. Other than left-over pizza.]

I’m an asshole, and what follows I had coming.

Went on a ride with hubby yesterday. Was beautiful. Gorgeous weather, sunny, low 70s, awesome. Spring is in the air. FINALLY. Needless to say, on a day like this, a girl can only keep the right wrist under control for so long before she starts getting antsy. We’re cruising along, I’m in the lead. I’m sure hubby just wants to target-fixate on my ass while we’re out enjoying ourselves, for no other reason. He’s always complaining about ‘having to keep up’, that his bike just can’t, or some such thing. Should trade that Kaw in for a Zook if it’s that much of a problem, but then what am I going to do with my junk when we go on trips? After all, I can’t be bothered with it, luggage corners like crap and introduces drag. ;P Anyway, at one point I’m getting bored with the traffic and decide to pass the three-car caravan that’s hindering my progress. They’re going speed limit +5, but I hate looking at cages, I like the view of the open road better… I’d rather have them look at my ass, too; at least for the five seconds they have to make out any of the details. I bide my time, until I come upon a nice little straight stretch of road, coast is clear, no intersections, and I rip it. After overtaking the cars, I take my time slowing back down, this is way too much fun and the road is still devoid of traffic, which means no cops either. I slow back down to speed limit +10. Hubby is nowhere to be seen. Where did he go? I thought he was right behind me. Oh well, he knows where we’re going and there’s construction on the dam, so he’ll be catching up in no time. He does. We turn into the visitor’s center parking lot and take a few moments to enjoy the nice weather. Perfect, really. We sit on the wall, just hanging out when we both decide we’re starving and need to go find a place to eat. Ah, we should really eat at home, but we’re both too lazy to cook. With that, the suggestion of popping a veggie lasagna in the oven is dismissed. What’s one more time, eh? I’m slowly eating my way out of what hubby calls my ‘Turbo Fund’. After being a girl about it and changing my mind like five times we settle on the ‘Mellow Mushroom’, a groovy little chain pizza joint, with a few great vegetarian options for me, because most of the other places are on the wrong side of town and hubby doesn’t feel like practicing using the friction zone three miles down Washington Road. We pull out, I’m in the lead yet again, we end up behind a gaggle of cars, and I change the plan. I decide to go through the Sumter National Forest for a quick little detour. Of course, two of the cars in front of me have the same damn idea. Shit. Now, I’m not about to let these people ruin my run through the loop going the speed limit. No. No. No. I pass them in a no-passing zone (but the whole damn road is one ‘huge we-had-a-surplus-of-yellow-paint’ stupid no-passing zone) and get my two-wheeled groove on. I usually do 70-80 through here, since that’s a nice little compromise between going to jail and still getting enough lean angle in the curves to actually know you’re leaning. I’m taking it easy today, because I’m not wearing my leathers. I don’t feel right when I don’t wear my chest/back protector and my leathers. Kind of mellows me out, I suppose. I figure Joe knows the route and instead of waiting for him at the one turn-off the loop has, I keep going. Big mistake. But I come to that. When I get to the place where the loop hooks back up to the main highway I left earlier during my change of plans, I pull to the side, stick it in neutral and wait for hubby to put in an appearance. As the minutes tick by I’m starting to get worried. 15 minutes later I’m sending texts and am trying to call him. Nothing. Of course, that would be appropriate, since he’s on his bike. My worry deepens into a nervous fear and my initial ‘he must have missed the turn-off’ changes into visions of him crashing. I keep telling myself that this is paranoia, since he is a good rider, has years of experience (unlike me) and is safety-minded. He must have missed the turn. Now I’m torn between backtracking and staying put. Two people trying to find each other while moving around hardly ever works out. But after five more minutes of that, I can’t contain myself any longer. The paranoia is getting the better of me. I finally realize I can check on his position using my BlackBerry with Google Latitude, I get my phone back out and load it up. It puts his ‘dot’ on I-20. WTF? I keep checking, but it’s not moving. That can’t be right. Maybe it’s an accuracy thing. I check my own ‘dot’, no it’s fairly accurate for me. It puts me pretty much where I am. Now the paranoia is latching onto the fact that his position isn’t changing. Shit. He’s in a ditch somewhere! All reason overridden, I hop on the bike, make a u-turn and head back the way I came. I’m hauling ass. I have to keep reminding myself to slow down. I keep checking for signs of a wreck… I keep fighting the thought with reason, not very successfully, I might add. By the time I get to the 90-degree corner I’m in 2nd gear doing 35. Shit, girl! Get yourself under control. I make my way, at a more reasonable speed, to the aforementioned turn-off and pull over to the edge of the road. I get my phone back out to check if Joe’s responded to my messages to let me know where he’s at. Nothing. Nada. Shit! I send two more desperate messages. They don’t go through. Crap. Of course, it finally dawns on me that there wouldn’t be any coverage in a national forest; but only after paranoid visions of a trashed BlackBerry in the grass, cracked blank screen… Get it together, girl! You are NOT making any sense. My paranoia of a dead hubby is alternated with visions of him being red-hot mad at me for violating the rule of ‘you wait where you turn off’. I had fucked this up royally by assuming he knew the loop and where to turn. He’s done it once and we were going the OTHER way. I sit there contemplating whether to turn left and backtrack to ‘last known good’ or to turn right to see if he’s missed the turn, or to wait. Waiting, I’ve proven isn’t working. Turning left is paranoia. With that I put the bike in gear and turn right. I can’t keep it together any longer, I’m bawling. I’m passing people, I’m doing 90+ in a 45. For once, I’m not worried about cops. I don’t give a shit. I’m mad at myself, for causing me to be in this situation to begin with and I’m scared as hell. Bring it on, coppers! Maybe you can help me find the only person in my life who really matters to me. I’ll gladly pay for your services in the form of a speeding ticket later, but first FIND HIM! I realize my brain’s still addled, so I try to not pay any mind to my head, but then I realize my stomach is in knots and I’m on the verge of throwing up. This is not the good kind of adrenaline, either. Damn it! I’m doubling the speed limit and can’t even enjoy it. I make it to the convenience store where I hope to find my husband, mad as a hatter, but very well alive with not a scratch on his bike. I circle, but don’t see him. Fuck! I pull into a parking space and get my phone out once again. I call him. Finally, I hear his voice: “Hello there!” He doesn’t even sound pissed, I think to myself, as I come to the realization of what this means! I’m happier than I don’t know what, the stress surges from my body, and I barely suppress the urge to get off the bike and do a lunatic happy dance in front of a bunch of innocent bystanders. “Where are you” – “At the Mellow Mushroom.” I sigh in relief, and reply: “I’ll be right there.” With that I hang up, shove my phone back in its holster on my belt and peel out of there like a shot. Now I’m in a hurry to see him. Good gawd, woman. Get your hormone levels checked, the mix may be running a tad bit testosterone rich.

Once I get to the ‘Shroom, we have palaver. Hubby’s rightfully pissed, but he contains his displeasure with my latest foible. He was apparently going through a similar experience than I was. He was checking ditches, too. ☹ And also states, that with the way I ride, he’s got more reason, too. Ouch! He also is not happy, because he ended up going several clutch-hand cramp-inducing fun-miles on Washington Road to get to the joint. Then he pauses. “What the hell were you doing going 130 on a backroad?!?” I’m dumbfounded; he is obviously referring to my passing those three cars on the road to the dam. “Uh.” – He still looks at me sternly, waiting for my answer with that “and it better be good” air of anticipation. I find my spunk: “How the hell would you know how fast I was going?” He still looks at me and I think I might have overstepped it here, considering the discussion we’ve just had, which ended in me apologizing and sitting there kind of glum and guilt-ridden, sipping on my diet pop. Then he does that thing, he does… it’s in his eyes mostly, and I know we’re cool again, as he says, still stern of voice, but his game’s up. “Because I was doing 115 and you were still pulling away from me.”

Gawd, I love this man! (even tho he’s slo)

“There’s no fucking way I can keep up with you on that bike of yours! Good gawd, woman. I dropped two gears and was all the way open and thought to myself: “Ya right, forget it.” I smile at him sweetly. Then decide to add insult to injury: “I was in 5th, buddy, 5th.” =D

A lesson learned in riding etiquette. Definitely.

Within perfect trust

He gave her the gift of speed.

Now he can’t catch her.

#senryu #MissBusaHT #progression #gift @TaildManx #veritas