Today I was cruising down the highway, enjoying the sound of my own voice while every station on the radio broad casted their daily dose of advertisements. I had spent several minutes browsing stations looking for a song, any song, but instead of music, a chorus of overly enthusiastic woman gushing over their
Fabulous Spray Tans and their
Oh So Affordable Hondas, sang away my highway happiness. That's when I took over. I sang Michael Buble songs an octave higher than he, or I, are capable of singing. I made up my own words to a few rap songs, and I even made up a little ditty of my own.
When that got old and the radio was still refusing to cooperate, I decided to people watch. It's not exactly a safe game to play while driving, but most games worth playing are dangerous. A man on a motorcycle appeared in my rear view mirror. He was on a mission to pass every car on the highway, and I was about to become his next victim. I might have made myself the antagonist in his quest, but I had just finished singing a somewhat sober song and wasn't feeling particularly aggressive. I pulled into the left lane and watched him pass me at an unnecessary 85mph.
Some motorcyclists are young men who wear skin-tight t-shirts that cling to their biceps and fly up in the wind revealing the lower portion of their tanned, taught, tattooed backs. These men are the Dove Chocolate of the cycling world. Like perusing the sweets in a candy dish, the chance of coming across that prized piece of Dove Chocolate is what draws my attention to each passing male motorcyclist. Once in a special while I am so fortunate as to indulge in the visual consumption of a Dove Chocolate motorist. Today was not that day.
Today Mr. Motorcycle came speeding by from behind with his t-shirt flapping around his chin and his love-handles hanging over the sides of his flannel boxers, the ones he told his mom he threw out in fifth grade. I looked away in disappointment, and clinging to the last smidge of optimism I possessed, turned the radio back on... commercials.
