I have been know to go a little fast on the Interstates, but only because my speedometer is faulty. It used to say I was doing 90-something -- a clear malfunction -- and something that I promised the neighbors that I would stop doing. It now seldom gives me a misreading above 80, most of the time it hangs right at 80, maybe 85.
When I was on I-44 in Missouri on Sunday, heading back to Illinois, it mistakenly but consistently said 80. Then, Fat Biker Chick passed me as if I were standing still!
I'’m not being insensitive; FATCHIK was the personalized plate on her motorcycle. She was wearing a white halter-top, above which I could see the tattoos on her shoulders and back in the warm glow of the fading September evening sun.
When I got to the top of the hill west of Six Flags, she was already rounding the curve into Eureka. When I got to the railroad bridges at Eureka, she had cleared the Meramec east of Times Beach. When I got to the top of Powder-Dump Hill, she had disappeared from view across the asphalt horizon that weaves towards 141.
Is there anything sexier than a woman who really knows how to drive? I love you Fat Biker Chick! Take care of yourself.
[Originally posted September 14, 2005]