To Hairman on the dreaded LHMB

LHMB

The Keed.

Cobwebs be gone.

Regrettably, this is the first time this year — not counting my trip to the motorbike store last June to get it inspected.
(I PREDICT A TORRENT OF SONOROUS MACHO POSTURING FROM WEST BRIDGEWATER.)
It’s no longer timidity, or worrying about wonky condition. Go back two years and we were getting dizzy spells, not frequently, but enough to be leery of riding motorbike.
What it is is I no longer have an excuse to ride, which I had when I worked.
There have been times over the past few months when I could have ridden to Hairman, but it was raining, or not enough time; WHATEVER!
Riding the motorbike adds at least 10-15 minutes to a trip.
First there is rollout (out of the garage), then there is donning my helmet and buttoning my jacket.
I can’t just get on it and go — it ain’t like driving a car. (With a car you just jump in and drive it — less than a minute.)
So now I need (want) other excuses to ride it. Riding it is fun — its own reward.
And I don’t need to ride it as a noisy extension of my personality. I don’t need to ride it to make myself whole.
I have other things I enjoy doing — perhaps even more. I particularly enjoy pushing this here pen.
And it’s such fun getting all-and-sundry all bent outta shape on this here famblee-site; particularly my blowhard brother in West Bridgewater.
Predictable as rain. All I hafta do is do or say anything at all — e.g. “greatest whatever of all time” — and he’s in orbit.
A Union-meeting is coming up in a few weeks, and I haven’t been to any in a while. —I may try the motorbike.
The all-powerful Tim Belknap is indicating a possible get-together at his home. Alone, that’s the motorbike — a trip into the storied Bristol Hills.
The trip to Hairman was uneventful — no dramas of any kind.
Leaving Honeoye Falls I thought I might be being pursued by a glowering intimidator, but he fell behind.

“Hairman” is my hair-dresser. I’ve gone to him at least 16 years.

“LHMB” is my 2003 Honda 600-cc CBR/RR motorcycle. Seeing a picture of it, my sister-in-Floridy declared “Lord-Have-Mercy;” and my loudmouthed brother-in-Boston, a macho Harley-guy, seeing it was yellow, pronounced it a “Banana.” So LHMB equals Lord-Have-Mercy-Banana.

My loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston lives “in West Bridgewater.”

RE: “I don’t need to ride it as a noisy extension of my personality. I don’t need to ride it to make myself whole........” I’ve noticed my loudmouthed macho brother-in-Boston uses his Harley to project himself.

“This here famblee-site” is our family’s web-site: “FlagOut;” named that because I had a mentally-retarded kid-brother (Down Syndrome) who lived at home, and he loudly insisted the flag be flown every day. “Flag-Out! Sun comes up, the flag goes up! Sun goes down, the flag comes down.” I fly the flag partly in his honor. (He died at 14 in 1968.) All my siblings are tub-thumping conservative Christians.

RE: “greatest whatever of all time......” I had the the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to suggest that Luciano Pavarotti was the greatest tenor of all time.”

RE: “Union-meeting.......” Our transit-union, the employees of Regional Transit Service of Rochester, N.Y., the local area-wide transit-bus operator, where I drove transit-bus for 16&1/2 years, has a meeting every month.

RE: “The all-powerful Tim Belknap.......” Tim Belknap is an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked; one of about seven. I once posted something by Belknap, and my brother-in-Boston loudly claimed Belknap was the whole and onliest reason the Messenger was so reprehensible; unaware the paper has at least seven editors, and Belknap is toward the bottom. Belknap like me is a car-guy, so we continue to keep in contact.

A “glowering intimidator” is a tailgater, named after Dale Earnhardt, the so-called “intimidator” of NASCAR fame, who used to tailgate race-leaders and bump them at speed until they let him by.