I take the scoot out for a 10:00 AM ride. Figure the drunks, err-revelers (fuckin' pc crap) have made it home by now. Rollin' through the local party district. The streets are already cleaned (good job, DPS) and the barricades (metal fence sections) are in the bucket of a slow moving front loader up ahead. Two guys on it are watching so nothing falls and gets run over by their rig. They are in Lane 2. I'm in L.1. They veer into L.1 (no warning or signal/typical S.Fl. road manners).
I lean over to L.2 and start to throttle on. Gonna pass on the right at 5MPH below the posted limit.
Big rig...can you guess what happens next?...diagonals right, blocks me with a wall of yellow steel. They are makin' for a between city buildings alley. My left foot slams the drum brake pedal down. 500 pounds of Milwaukee antique sickle loses traction at the back wheel. Right rear starts to come up alongside right center.
Ahh, oops.
Take foot off, sled straightens out and tries to snap/splat on right side. Heavily booted (don't try this shit in flip flops) right sole stomps the deck and comes back up to the peg as I use what there is available of L.1, being careful not to cross the head on center line. Safety first, ya know.
At the light I turn right (after having re entered L.2, the Tonka Toy in my mirrors) and go to the store to buy some cereal. Shredded Wheat. I like bein' a regular guy.
Back at the shack, parked, while lookin' at the putt I compliment it on its survival skills.
This black '76 Ironhead can be a very road savvy critter when called to task.
Kinda makes me feel lucky bein' the person who gets to put air in the tires.
