DAYTONA BIKER WEEK

A few weeks back, Biker Week came to an end in Daytona Beach, Florida.
And at the end of that week, I was given a car to drive up to Allentown, PA.
Which meant that I was driving with a whole lot of traffic up I-95, most of
them motorcycles.

They often ride in bunches, and a group of them can easily be as long as a semi truck.
But unlike a truck, their size can expand or shorten, sort of like an accordian.
So getting around them can be tricky.

I have to hand it to them, speaking from a safety standpoint.
They will often go 55 to 60mph in a zone that is marked for 70mph.
But I'm doing a job and need to go the maximum allowed speed, which meant
in this case passing them.
A few times there were just two Bikers, and when I'd try to speed up and go around
them, they'd gun their engines and speed up even faster than me to cut me off.
At first I thought it was coincidence, and then decided maybe they were screwing with me.

When I stopped in South Carolina for gas, an elderly Gent came rapidly towards me, limping along as he used a cane for support.
As he approached me, I was pumping gas into my tank.
He surprised me by lifting his cane and poking me in the chest with it.
"Just who do you think you are, young man?"

I was bemused. "Beg pardon?"

"I don't like the way you drive!"

"You don't?"

"No sir, I do not. You're zigging and zagging all through traffic, weaving in and out, doing at least 100 miles per hour."

"I think you've made a mistake."

"Don't sass me, boy! Don't try to treat me like an old fool." He poked me with
the cane again for emphasis. "You make me nervous."

"Did I cut you off or something?"

"What do you mean, boy?"

"Did I cut in front of you while you were driving? If so, I am sorry."

"Heck, I'm not driving, I can't see well enough to drive anymore.
My daughter is driving me back up to Virginia."

I was baffled. "I thought you said I made you nervous."

"I did. You do. Zipping around like a crazy person, ripping down the road like
a crazy man in that little yellow sports car of yours. Stop it. Stop it now!"

I pointed at the black Cadillac Seville I was driving. "Sir, this is the car I'm driving today."

"Huh? You say what?" The old fellow was genuinely perplexed.

"I don't know who you saw driving a yellow sports car, but it wasn't me."

The old Gent's confusion dissolved, and quickly turned into rage. "Listen boy, no one likes a smart ass! You got me?" He poked me with the cane once more, and then limped away proudly.

I got back in the car and continued headed north. I guess I need to have more respect for Bikers. And wear a bullet proof vest in case I get attacked by a cane again.