No Dubya-stickers

—1) (This is weeks go, but it was worth writing up then, but I’ve forgotten it until now — not that memorable.)
We are returning from Buffalo with our new dog.
We are almost home, navigating Ontario St. southeast out of Honeoye Falls, Route 65, the road we live on, the road to our house.
A loud unmuffled GeezerGlide is ahead, slowing to make a right turn.
But no turnsignals. A classic scoot; devoid of anything that might detract from the macho image.
He extends his left arm, hand up to signal a right turn.
Well great! A biker willing to express himself to surrounding traffic; a class act. (In contrast to the usual sullen Sonny wannabees.)
I used to do that on the Ducati, even though it had turn-signals. I wanted everyone to know my intent.
The biker makes his right turn, and I fall in behind Grandpop in a faded dark-green Chrysler minivan.
The minivan slows, and suddenly arrows left into a driveway.
Totally unsignaled of course — and 65 is a main highway.
Sorry chillen; no Dubya-sticker.

—2) We are returning from the so-called elitist country-club.
We are on Baker Road, a rural back-country road between Ionia and Route 65.
Suddenly a shiny red stepside Colorado lurches to a stop where a driveway enters Baker Road.
I had tapped the brakes, because it looked like macho-dude was gonna cut in front of me.
But he stopped, thankfully. Probably already late to the Tastee-Freeze, and I was gonna make him five seconds later.
I pass and macho-dude suddenly blasts onto Baker Road behind me, spinning his unladen rear inside tire in the gravel and laying down a stripe.
The speedlimit on Baker is 40, and it’s double-yellow a long way, so I speed up to about 45.
But macho-dude is climbing all over my rear bumper, glowering angrily in my mirror.
Before 65, Baker flattens into a short straight section that can allow passing.
I hear a sudden roaring behind me, and macho-dude is suddenly passing, giving me the finger.
“I thought you were going faster than normally,” Linda observes.
That passing section is very short, so macho-dude suddenly cuts in front of me.
On his rear window, in front of the faded Confederate flag, is an upside-down decal. It says “If you can read this, turn me over.”

A “Dubya-sticker” is a Bush-Cheney 2004 bumper-sticker. All insane traffic-moves seem to involve Bush-supporters. They seem to think they have the right.

A “GeezerGlide” is a laid-back cruiser motorcycle, usually made by Harley-Davidson, who makes a motorcycle known as the ElectraGlide. My all-knowing, blowhard brother-in-Boston, the macho ad-hominem king, who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, has a Harley-Davidson ElectraGlide Classic, which I call his “GeezerGlide.”

“Sonny” is Sonny Barger (“BAR-grrr”), the ultimate Hells Angel motorcyclist.

I long ago had a Ducati 900SS motorcycle; a motorcycle Ferrari — made in Italy.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns.

“Colorado” is the Chevrolet’s current small pickup-truck.

“Linda” is my wife of 40+ years.