Road Rage
by Titus Gee
As the truck burned past within slapping distance of my right arm, the driver blew his horn so I’d notice the finger he was waving at me. Then he hit the gas and cleared 100 mph so he wouldn’t have to see if I returned the salute.
I kept my hands on the grips.
Not my problem.
A guy did that to a Hell’s Angel once, so says the Gonzo, and next minute the pack of them chain-whipped his car to shreds at 70 mph — just swarmed around him on their bikes and smashed everything they could reach.
Yep.
I get it. Guess, I wouldn’t do it, but I get.
‘Cause you’re pretty defenseless out there in the wind with your legs wrapped around 100 hp and nothing above but air and the blue sky. The smallest econo-car could do serious damage, let alone a truck.
So, what’s this punk got to rage about at 10:30 on a Tuesday morning? Afraid I’m gonna chip his paint with my helmet?
Truth is, he knows he won’t get hurt if he hits me.
Maybe it’s envy. Or some kind of weird inferiority complex – like playground bullies pushing down smaller kids. Maybe they’re compensating. Whatever it is, the ugly little cowards can make riding an exercise in temperance.
Pulling out in front of you at half speed or splitting your lane doing 30 over the limit. Cutting in tight when they see you riding the line at a stop light so you can’t slip through the cracks, or gunning it off the line to fight you for the pole position. If all else fails, there’s the choice gesture to add insult to near-injury.
A good rider brushes them off and keeps it rolling straight and solid. Breathes it in and blows it out. That can be harder to learn than any stunt, but it touches the key difference between bikers and the tank-driving wackos in their big metal boxes. A real biker’s got his steel cage on the inside.
Let ’em rant and honk and wave their little fingers out the window before they ram it into a canyon wall at 100 miles an hour.
Hey, man.
Not my problem.
