As most of you know, I am home for the summer. Yes, I know, make your shock noise... NOW. My laptop, of a faithful four years, has decided to pass on. Therefore, my "plane ticket" will be spent upon a laptop worthy of my graduate studies at Illinois State University. Since there will be no international gallivanting this summer, I plan on nurturing some homegrown adventure...
The ROADRUNNER, affectionately named in honor of its humble horn, became part of our family in 2008. Since then, we have shared many heartwarming times together. Its first summer she had her freshman initiation.
One day Kerrie Isabel, a terribly wise woman, bought a 3ftx3ft whiteboard at WalMart, which is located about 5 miles from our abode. Upon arriving at my scooter, I then proceeded to think about how I would creatively carry this home. Under the bum didn't work. On top of my lap was a distraction. No choice -- I must slip in underneath my backpack straps to hold it in sturdy, all the while cutting off my circulation as my arms are unconsciously lifted into an uncomfortable puppet position (although still able to drive properly). After completing my strangling masterpiece, which everyone admired with jealous eyes, it started to rain. If you have never driven against raindrops at 35mph, I say it's a must in life -- if merely to verify that misery loves company...
Having a scooter is much more fun than I ever imagined. It's as if once the rump makes that first connection with the black, leather seat, the connection will never be severed from henceforth and forevermore. Those old men with mustangs think they have hold of life at its best. Wake up! I must kindly make my dear colleague aware that his accelerator is at his foot's disposal, versus the power at the mere flinch of my hands. I win.
Ever so often, I catch myself talking out loud -- either to myself or to a discourteous driver. I might fervently tell him he has issues, never stooping to road rage (I find it distasteful). I have to remember, however, that no glass keeps my words contained. I must say though that non-verbals are powerful. For example, after a massive white van followed too close for comfort today, I whipped around after we'd both stopped, lowered my sunglasses, and just stared sternly for 2 seconds. The two seconds telepathically communicate everything.
Above all, the motorcyclist code is the most top secret language I have encountered yet, even more than Spanish. When you come across the Harley Davis macho-man, do you go with the low salutation or the farmer two-finger wave? Maybe you do the burly head nod? ...Or simply move on because his aurora is too magnificent for a modest 125cc. Well, I mustn't say much more. It is top secret, after all.
Some call me dorky.
Some call me a wild spirit.
Some call me the happy girl of southern Illinois.