Odd things that Happen when on the Road
Last Fall we were heading south on I295 through Portland Maine. Moderate traffic moving along at 60 mph or so. Out of the corner of my eye I see a Sea Gull carrying what looked like a good size Quahog...
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I've got a few, too. There was the time my wife and I were returning home about midnight, 70 mph on the freeway bypass, and a deer came out of nowhere and slammed into the driver's side, just ahead of the mirror. His/her head took out the windshield, and ripped the mirror off. Drove on home in the rain about 10 miles with no windshield and the front and back seats covered in glass shards.
Then there was the bear. Coming back home on a motorcycle about 10 pm, rounded a corner and blew past a fair sized brown bear. Missed him by maybe a foot. He was trotting down the road on all fours, and his shoulders were about the same height as my ears on that bike. Yes, I stopped at the country store a mile farther on to calm down.
And who could forget the bee. Summer time, windows down, bee hit the driver's side mirror and landed in my lap, taking out it's dying rage on my "gentleman's sausage." Needless to say, I stopped at the next little country store, grabbed a box of bicarbonate and asked the lady cashier where the bathroom was. She got snooty and informed me they had no restroom for customers. My reply was that she had a choice to make: (a) point me to _A_ restroom, or (b) I would drop trou and use water from their soda machine to apply first aid to the bee sting in my crotch. But make up your mind quickly, lady. A restroom magically appeared.
Then there was the bear. Coming back home on a motorcycle about 10 pm, rounded a corner and blew past a fair sized brown bear. Missed him by maybe a foot. He was trotting down the road on all fours, and his shoulders were about the same height as my ears on that bike. Yes, I stopped at the country store a mile farther on to calm down.
And who could forget the bee. Summer time, windows down, bee hit the driver's side mirror and landed in my lap, taking out it's dying rage on my "gentleman's sausage." Needless to say, I stopped at the next little country store, grabbed a box of bicarbonate and asked the lady cashier where the bathroom was. She got snooty and informed me they had no restroom for customers. My reply was that she had a choice to make: (a) point me to _A_ restroom, or (b) I would drop trou and use water from their soda machine to apply first aid to the bee sting in my crotch. But make up your mind quickly, lady. A restroom magically appeared.
