He was big and bent and grey and old...
To my dear elderly friends.
When you're too small to see over the steering wheel and must peer through it instead, it might be time to surrender your license.
When you can't see the broad, antsy rider in your rear view mirror because of the plaid blanket and box of tissues on the parcel shelf, it might be time to stay home a little more.
When you have to cut across three lanes of peak hour traffic, in a fifty-metre stretch of gravel-scattered road causing two cars to lock up their brakes, because your myopic eyes couldnt read the two foot high signs and you nearly missed your turn off, it might be time to ask a friend to chaffeur you.
When you can't find your little tin of barley sugars in your glovebox, and I watch your head and shoulders disappear from the lovely frame of your rear windshield, I will presume you've had a heart attack and take evasive action. I know how good barley sugars are, I find myself distracted by the thought of sticky confectionary and entering other peoples' protective bubble all the time.
When it takes you a good hundred metres or so to change gears, either your car's on its way out, or you are. Really. It's second gear, it's the one right next to the gear you were just sitting in. Don't fear the leather-clad bouncer-looking-guy behind you, just change gears. Quickly.
When I shift down and rev the bike, I'm going to overtake you, and your last minute decision to change lanes - I know, once you reach a certain age, your reflexes move with all the grace and finesse of a glacier, but still - will only make me twist the throttle more, a rapidly accelerating leapfrogging because you scare me. Your driving skills make my testicles withdraw deep into my body in primal fear. Throwing your hands in the air as I watch in the rear-view mirror, as if it was me doing 30km/h in a 60 zone, will only make me swear that little bit more inside my helmet.
There will be times when a baby of a motorcycle will cross into the incoming lane to weave through the wrong side of a speed-reducing chicane in an effort to get around you, and it's because you're driving like it's 1910 and trying not to lose your straw boater. The fact that I can whip out and around you in a twenty metre stretch of road without breaking the speed limit might be an indicator of your inability to put any modicum of force on the accelerator pedal.
When you finally muster the energy to flex your flaccid arms and toot your horn at me, be thankful I have my helmet on, and my visor down, even though I've already pulled into my own driveway, gotten off my bike, and checked the letterbox by the time you potter around the corner. Out of respect and sympathy for your encroaching dementia, I won't flip you the finger, and I won't lift my visor to bellow easily lip-readable profanities at you. I will just smile, and wave, and not think about following you and undoing all the lug nuts on your rear wheels.
Stay home. Think about your grandkids. Sip weak, milky tea and settle into your slippers, and please, please do not venture out on the roads.
Yours sincerely,
The Frustrated Rider Who Nearly Booted Your Mirror Off.
When you're too small to see over the steering wheel and must peer through it instead, it might be time to surrender your license.
When you can't see the broad, antsy rider in your rear view mirror because of the plaid blanket and box of tissues on the parcel shelf, it might be time to stay home a little more.
When you have to cut across three lanes of peak hour traffic, in a fifty-metre stretch of gravel-scattered road causing two cars to lock up their brakes, because your myopic eyes couldnt read the two foot high signs and you nearly missed your turn off, it might be time to ask a friend to chaffeur you.
When you can't find your little tin of barley sugars in your glovebox, and I watch your head and shoulders disappear from the lovely frame of your rear windshield, I will presume you've had a heart attack and take evasive action. I know how good barley sugars are, I find myself distracted by the thought of sticky confectionary and entering other peoples' protective bubble all the time.
When it takes you a good hundred metres or so to change gears, either your car's on its way out, or you are. Really. It's second gear, it's the one right next to the gear you were just sitting in. Don't fear the leather-clad bouncer-looking-guy behind you, just change gears. Quickly.
When I shift down and rev the bike, I'm going to overtake you, and your last minute decision to change lanes - I know, once you reach a certain age, your reflexes move with all the grace and finesse of a glacier, but still - will only make me twist the throttle more, a rapidly accelerating leapfrogging because you scare me. Your driving skills make my testicles withdraw deep into my body in primal fear. Throwing your hands in the air as I watch in the rear-view mirror, as if it was me doing 30km/h in a 60 zone, will only make me swear that little bit more inside my helmet.
There will be times when a baby of a motorcycle will cross into the incoming lane to weave through the wrong side of a speed-reducing chicane in an effort to get around you, and it's because you're driving like it's 1910 and trying not to lose your straw boater. The fact that I can whip out and around you in a twenty metre stretch of road without breaking the speed limit might be an indicator of your inability to put any modicum of force on the accelerator pedal.
When you finally muster the energy to flex your flaccid arms and toot your horn at me, be thankful I have my helmet on, and my visor down, even though I've already pulled into my own driveway, gotten off my bike, and checked the letterbox by the time you potter around the corner. Out of respect and sympathy for your encroaching dementia, I won't flip you the finger, and I won't lift my visor to bellow easily lip-readable profanities at you. I will just smile, and wave, and not think about following you and undoing all the lug nuts on your rear wheels.
Stay home. Think about your grandkids. Sip weak, milky tea and settle into your slippers, and please, please do not venture out on the roads.
Yours sincerely,
The Frustrated Rider Who Nearly Booted Your Mirror Off.