I saw alot of anger growing up, and so I try to control my own. But I'm not very good at it, not at all.

So when the Harley Davidson flew past me, without even a wave, my hand began to twist the throttle without a conscious thought. My bike is old, I know that. It's old and tired and its 80 horsepower engine, a beast in its day, is a sopwith camel in a jet plane age.

Still, the bike respondedand I tore down the freeway, buffeted by the wind. I guess I'm old, too, and I'm an 80s guy in a Millenium age, but I cut my teeth riding the Los Angeles freeways, splitting lanes, weaving among cars, a shark swimming in a sea of traffic.

And so without much thought I flew through and among the cars, danced with my bike on the blacktop, the Capitol Dome flying by, and the fat, lumbering Harley, nearly as big as a car itself, was a quarter mile behind me in a few moments time, caged in by traffic.

The weekend was spent tightening down all the screws and bolts I shook loose on my poor old bike. That's what a temper will do to you.

Fat pig

I saw a bike today that looked like a fat pig. A black Suzuki with a gargantuan gas tank. A beast on wheels with oil for blood. It brooded at the rear of the dealership basement, the other bikes, bright greens and blues and reds, filling the other aisles.
But this metal creature sat alone. I climbed astride it, and felt as though I were the first to do so, like the monster was lonely and craving someone to care for it. But it's an ugly beast. When I left it, I doubted I'd ever visit again.