I had neither crap, cash, nor a crapload of cash in my pocket.
The safest lane for a motorcycle is the far-left lane. Not today. Apparently, a lot of people were in a "20 miles over? meh" hurry. I stopped counting after the 97th car tried to crawl up my, err... tailpipe. (OK, I didn't count. It's just a low estimate.)
And the guy who tried to read the label on my jeans for 40 miles, but refused to pass until I actually pulled into a turnout? Charmer.
"Perhaps you were riding too slowly," you think. Reasonable assumption -- after all, I'm a girl on a giant tricycle, right?
I checked that too.
My speedometer was quite clearly in the "this could be pricey" zone.
Maybe if they realized I was in the midst of a 310-mile killing spree, they would have backed off. Shown a little patience.
|Evidence of many satisfying splats.|
The end of the work week drove me to it. By noon on Friday, I'd decided: I needed to spend Saturday killing bugs. With my head. Plenty hit my jacket, chaps, and trike, but the helmet kills make a satisfying splat. Gross? Maybe. It's not like I aim for them.
Thursday was another chapter in a story of a co-worker's ambition, greed, and gamesmanship. Strangely her latest chapter didn't read well with a lot of people. Most of Friday was escalations, conference calls, explanations, and a lot of finger pointing. Lucky me, I'm the person on my team with the nerd knowledge to be in on all the fun.
Gosh work can be fun! So fun, you want to get on a motorcycle, take a 300+-mile round trip ride to lunch, and kill bugs with your head.