scooterlife - photog's blog

Motorcycles. Scooters. Wheelchairs. Tape. Whatever rolls.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

To the Jerk in the crimson Suburban

That beeping noise--oh so hard to hear above the chattering on your cell phone--was my horn. You may have noticed a doppler effect as I moved laterally against the curb while you continued your trek to starboard, pushing me out of the lane and into the wasteland of glass-strewn curb and the great unknown of beer-bottle-littered grass.

I know that you think I'm a lesser being relegated to 50cc's, and you could never fathom the idea that I might actually CHOOSE to go places outside my walking and bicycling range without making some oil shiek giddy with glee over the cacophany of KACHINGing that happens when your 4-wheeled oil tanker shudders to a fume-sucking halt at the local Stop-n-Rob.

Or maybe you think I'm an SUV-hater, when in fact I've been a road racer and love the sound of finely-tuned F1 engines that are drinking petrol for no other reason than to go fast for a few hours. I own a 4.0L Jeep that I adore for its dogged ability haul my video gear around to put food on the table when it's not carrying my mountain bikes and kayaks to destinations around the country despite having 156K on the clock.

And if you didn't get all your information from FOX, you might know that real greenies ride four strokes.

Listen up, tough guy: though I could live off the land for months, you would be screaming for a Tastykake after 30 minutes of being on the AT, so don't even try the excuse that you use your truck for camping because if it doesn't fit in 2 saddlebags or on your back, it's ain't camping--it's hauling WalMart's sporting goods inventory from one place to another. I've never been run off the road whether I'm on my scooter, bicycle, or motorcycle, by anyone with a well-used Yakima rack, kayaks on the roof, or a goofy, drooling Black Lab hanging out the window splattering drool on the downhill bike on the spare tire rack, no matter who they voted for in the last election. Those of us who get outside a lot tend to give a bit of leeway to anyone who has wind against their skin.

And those of us who have busted their ass in crappy interim jobs to stay self-supporting rarely feel any sort of animosity towards someone getting from A-to-B in a cheap-ass 88 Ford Taurus or Yamaha Zuma because we've been there and while it sucks to have to work from the ground level up, it sure beats sucking up to the boss's no-talent son who runs the division because he couldn't keep a job stocking cans at the Food Lion--the same guy that drives a crimson Suburban that his dad co-signed for because his Camaro (the one with the Vanilla Ice mural on the hood) got repo'd the month he overspent on phone sex.

But you only saw a chick on a scooter from your lofty climate-controlled leather-clad perch in the left lane, and deemed the right lane your sovereign territory that you should take even if it meant that I'd have to fight for my life, not just for a little patch of pavement. Nevermind the fact that I was doing the speed limit. The sight of a smallish vehicle was just too tempting to your ego.

Am I guilty of making generalizations by suggesting you are making them as well? Maybe, but I'm not the jerk who ran someone off the road while locking eyes with me. You had a second to wave a quick apology. My first thought wasn't that you were a guy in an SUV--it was simply a huge mass of sheet metal being driven by someone who looked at me and pushed me off the road. It's America--buy what you want. Drive what you want. But the moment you start using that vehicle as a weapon, my tolerance meter hits zero and I get to extrapolate a bit based on the fact that A) you're an asshat and B) you're driving a large vehicle, which gives me a big rant target that involves my analysis of what fuels your nasty behavior, and the attributes of a largish vehicle that shows no signs of being used for any other utility than ferrying your solo butt around town.

Perhaps when I pulled up next to you and mouthed a rather unpleasant word that described a nether region of your flabby fanny (your numerous pale chins made that an easy guess), it made you mad. Good. Perhaps as I pulled away and flashed the digital universal indicator that we would never get along amicably, you thought your repeated horn blasts would reduce me to a quivering mass of fearful girlie tears causing me to topple blindly into the median and take the next public transit bus home, sobbing.

Not so, O short-penised one. That's why every honk earned another one-finger salute.

The $65.00 you just put in your tank will buy many swanky dinners for me and my adoring loved one, who thinks I am sexy whether I am on the scooter or the larger BMW GS--which, I might add, I can ride right over your ugly blocky vehicle leaving a nice Tourance imprint on that previously pristine paint. And if SUV phallus-measuring contests are the only thing you understand, try following my Jeep offroad. If accleration is the contest, you'll never get close enough to sniff the catalyzed exhaust of my GS.

And after those meals, the $1.65 I paid for a week's worth of gas to propel me through parts of town that still have yards and porches (anyone waved at you lately?) barely eats into the generous tip I'll give the folks who are working their ass off for non-tipping buttheads like yourself who are giving it one last try with Veal Medallions and Merlot to get your date to put out this time.

You, O lacking-in-driving-ability doofus, will still have a short penis, and an overbred truck that's embarrassed to hang out with its working class mechanical brethren with locking hubs because its capability never gets used for much more than carrying one router to a new client who won't rehire you because you're an ass. The guys you think are your Buddies snicker behind your back because they've yanked your great crimson beast out of your flamingo-embellished front yard each year during the Annual Raleigh Storm-of-the-Century 1/4" Snowfall, using everything from a '61 Willys Wagon to a Subaru Brat (both of which you make fun of), because you never learned how to drive in a light dusting of snow with your mighty 4X4. On those days you call in sick and watch soaps while your friends yank the inert alumni-stickered slug back into the driveway after you slid it into the neighbor's heat pump while backing out of the garage. When they get done, they go out and use their Jeeps and Subarus and old Land Cruisers to get folks to dialysis while you ponder--alone--whether Chet really did cheat on Sheila and whether that's a bad thing. Meanwhile, the kid up the street cranks up his 50cc scooter and gets to school, fishtailing the entire 3 miles trip and grinning at the applause he's getting from stranded drivers. (That part is true--you had to see it to believe it and it's a great story but one you won't hear from me)

I'm sure other trucks feel sorry for your truck--as if it were a veal calf dreaming of running the range with its free-range horned pals, instead of being stuck in suburbia waiting to be slaughtered at trade-in for the next truck with more SD slots and bigger GPS screen, never to shoulder a load of kayaks, tortured with a Billy Ocean CD on repeat.

You will most likely continue to sleep alone or in a mostly sexless relationship that is marked by sporadic 5 minutes episodes of loveless genital friction. You see, any chick that hangs out with mean guys who deliberately run people off the road will most likely put out just long enough to gain access to your bank account and then use your 8-mpg behemouth for all her in-town (ka-ching) shopping errands (ka-ching) because obviously you don't have personality, courage, or character to attract someone who loves you for who you are, instead of your cubic displacement (of your engine, bug-knocker).

The kicker? She probably thinks scooters are cuter than your SUV and is thinking, wow, not paying for $24 of Veal Medallions and Merlot is getting her $24 closer to that Honda Metropolitan.

That is, if she doesn't put it on your credit card first.

BTW, I got your tag number.