…well, not really. This is me, after all. But following along in the vein of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, who made the same announcement during the worst of the debacle at Kabul’s Hamid Karzai International Airport, and then followed it with several hundred more of their words, here–with the hope that I’m more on point, or at least more interesting, than their Royal Wokenesses–I go:
I just came back from getting a cortisone shot in my knee. I’ve probably got a small tear in the meniscus, and I may need surgery at some point, but we’re taking it one step at a time. Jen (the Physician’s Assistant) is very good** and it didn’t hurt much–very unlike the one I got a few months ago for trigger finger in my left hand. That one was excruciating. And it didn’t solve the problem long-term, as they assured me it does in about two-thirds of the cases. So most definitely surgery in my future at some point for that one. Deep joy.
Most of the trip home from the doctor’s office (about nine miles) is Interstate highway. Once I get off the Interstate, I’m on narrow country roads which may, or may not, have road markings. They’re not heavily travelled, and we don’t speed because of all the bends and the hills.
Approaching me in the other direction, I espy a motorcycle. I don’t know much about them, don’t like them all that much (my only experiences riding on the back of one were less than enjoyable), and am always mindful of that old saw about motorcycles: “It’s not a question of if; it’s only a question of when.” (Sorry, I know there are those here who enjoy their excursions. I’m happy for you. It’s just not my thang, and when I encounter them on the road, I’m always on my guard. )
Sooo…here he comes, approaching me at speed, on what I’d call a “mid-range” model. Much more than a scooter, but certainly not the largest motorbike I’ve ever seen. (Those were in the parking lot of a movie theater, the day Mr. She and I, my stepdaughter and my mother-in-law, went to see Casablanca on the big screen. Once we’d got ourselves parked and sorted out, we realized we’d lost Grandma, and discovered her being treated like a queen, and holding forth in the middle of a mass of guys who were part of a Harley ride. She was having the time of her life, and they were on the point of tossing her onto the back of one and taking her for a spin. I suppose she was in her early 70s at the time. Not much older than I am now. LOL.)
Anyhoo, the guy coming the other way got closer and closer, and as we passed each other, I noticed two things:
- He was not wearing a helmet
- He was wearing a mask
Crimenutely. People–even those on motorbikes–have lost their ever-loving minds.
T.E. Lawrence and his beloved Brough Superior SS100 motorcycle. On May 13, 1935, only two months after retiring from the army, he was out joyriding, swerved to avoid two boys on the road, went over the handlbars, and suffered a fatal head injury. One of his attending neurosurgeons was so affected by Lawrence’s injuries that he embarked on a research project which led to the adoption of protective headgear for both civilian and military motorcycle riders. A bit more on the sad end to a fascinating life, here.
PS: I suspect my opposite number was not a local. The locals have far too much sense. I was enjoying myself hugely in the company of a bunch of truly deplorable friends and neighbors (Trump voters all) the other day, whose bewilderment with those denuding the shelves at Tractor Supply of Ivermectin and slurping it up themselves was profound. Most of them were willing to consider the possibility that Ivermectin might help with Covid. None of them thought taking the veterinary formulation on one’s own and without medical supervision was a good idea. And all of them were ticked off that–as I’d predicted–it’s become much harder for those of us who need it for our livestock to acquire it locally. People are driving out here to buy it (apparently the paste is more popular than the liquid, but both of them are sold out) without much concern for the people who actually live here. In much the same way, interlopers during hunting season are the ones who leave decapitated bucks to rot in the woods, and who throw their fast-food leavings (and other insalubrious garbage) out onto the road. The natives just don’t do that. Thus, I conclude that the daft brush on the motorbike came from “away” somewhere. Still shaking my head, though.
**Jen the Physician Assistant is just another piece of evidence in my stepdaughter Jenny’s longstanding and often borne-out theory that–when you’re looking for a smart, efficient woman in any sort of office setting to help you–if you can find one whose name is “Jennifer,” your chances are pretty good she’ll fit the bill. She would know.
