It's not the heat, it's the stupidity

So it's like 100 degrees right now.

It's so hot, I saw one of my dogs chasing a squirrel and they were both walking.

We decided to halt regular ops at the kennel today, so I find myself with an unexpected day to myself. As usual, I considered going for a motorcycle ride. Then I decided against it: simply too hot.

As much as I love the warmth, when it's this oppressive I don't enjoy it and my temper can flare with the temperature. Makes me particularly lower-threshold around dumbasses, and if you wanna find dumbasses outside of the dog world, just throw one leg over a motorcycle and prepare to be stunned by the individual and collective moronica of your fellow man.

And just as my least favorite people in the dog world tend to be other dog professionals, my least favorite people in the two-wheeled world tend to be other motorcyclists.

You know, the doo-rag-wearin' dentists going two-under the speed limit on their $25,000 land yachts as they do their weekly Dunkin Donuts run, pointedly refusing to acknowledge anyone on a non-"American" bike ( a position made even more ironic by their cheesy, made-in-Pakistan, logo-encrusted riding uniforms). And the local sportbike squid population, bouncing off the rev limiter at every red light; riding shirtless with flip flops and a tube-top-clad hottie perched precariously on the passenger pad, helmets helpfully slung over their arms to protect the tiny vestigal brains located near their elbows.

The other night, Drago and I were in the truck, returning from the supermarket on Rte. 101. I've enjoyed 101 on my bike dozens of times, and it's one of the few places where I've experienced hitting the triple digit mark on the speedo. It's a beautiful highway divided by a generous grass median with two lanes in each direction. There is no reason to ride like an old, blind person on Rte. 101. Even a relative rookie like me can handle it at speed.
We came up behind two obvious OC-Choppers addicts on their Harleys. They were doing about the speed limit, and got into the left lane to pass a slower car. OK, so far, so good. But then, they didn't move over, even as we closed in on them. To make matters worse, they then split ranks so that one was in each lane of the highway, blocking all progress as they putted along, probably lost in the endless loop of "And I'm not gonna let 'em catch me, no, not gonna let 'em catch the Midnight Ri-i-i-ider..." echoing in their empty heads.

Um, boys? A little attention to the road, please? Do you know how frigging lucky you are that the man behind the wheel of our vehicle wasn't drunk, a biker-hater or even just a little more pissed off than you made him? Do the words "passing lane" mean anything to you?

Let me guess: if something happened to one of these dopes, you can bet all you would hear from their survivors would be about how crazy or stupid people in "cages" are...how a helmet wouldn't have saved good ol' Carl; how a particular mass-marketed and wildly overpriced brand of motorcycle represented Carl's rugged individualism (and his apparently unique, rebellious ability to procure a credit card and walk into a fern-bar dealership); how Carl was a very "experienced" rider (because he rides major highways to swap meets and poker runs and trailers his bike to the rally) and in no way was he responsible for his sudden and violent demise on the road.

I love riding more than pretty much anything else. And I like when passing riders give me the wave, and occasionally a thumbs-up, and in one case, an old crusty dude on an ancient Harley did something very close to a "sig heil" when he saw my awesome Vanson Bones jacket cresting the horizon. It's a bike thing. I dig it. Most of the people I've met on bikes have been cool. But on a day like today, when my temper-trigger is a little more on edge, I know that God will put idiots in my path.