So on Friday evening at Hooters, George asks if I want to go on french
fry run with him and Rhonda on Sunday. Sure, I said, which bike and
what time? "The Harley at 10:30," he replied.
So this morning I get up, clean up, try to cope with a nasty tequila
hangover, and ride the 65 miles to their house on the lovely Capital
Beltway (I-495) and U.S. Route 50. Everyone is driving like they
have hangovers, too, and I assiduously wave to every other rider out
there taking his and/or her life into their hands. I arrived
promptly at 10:45 AM. They feed me dry crackers and vintage 6.5
ounce Coca Cola in an attempt to prop up my blood sugar without
causing me to ralph all over their foyer and kitchen. Strangely
enough, there is no delay and we are very shortly heading east on U.S.
50 and over the Chesapeake Bay Bridge.
When we get to Ocean City, I learn that a french fry run is riding to
Ocean City and back just to get an order of Thrasher's Famous
Boardwalk Fries Served Since 1929.
http://www.oceancity.com/wiki/index.php/Thrashers
We walk the fries off while people watching on the boardwalk. I
estimate that we walked about 11ty billion miles in boots, jeans, and
t-shirts amongst the bikini and shorts-clad throngs. George and
Rhonda gently point out that there are mile markers on the light posts
on the boardwalk, and that we walked 2.0 miles. I feel close to
passing out, so we eat funnel cake and Dumsers Ice Cream Since 1939
(http://www.beach-net.com/dumsers/ ) and then waddle back to the
bikes.
On the way west across the DelMarVa peninsula on U.S. Route 50, we
encounter clot after clot of homebound beach visitors all plodding
along at the speed limit. We work our way through each group, and
have a little bit of open road for a couple of miles before hitting
the next clot. In one clot, a middle aged man is riding an
oppressively loud Road King, and seemingly "rising to the challenge"
bursts out of the clot behind us and proceeds to follow us. He is
wearing shorts, a t-shirt, tennis shoes w/o socks, and a 3/4 helmet.
His somewhat portly female passenger is wearing shorts, sandals, and a
peasant blouse top that has apperently been torn somewhat asunder by
the wind. She is forced to either hold the top up or let it slide
down around her waist and then hug her man to prevent flashing all the
other Route 50 denizens with her, um, assets.
The man appears intent on passing us, and indeed, when we momentarily
get trapped in the left lane for a bit, he triumphantly rides by in
the right lane, and as we all three glance over to see the source of
the incredible racket that is assailing our ears, his female passenger
treats us all to a 1/2 frontal view of her "girls."
George reacts by feigning projectile vomiting for the next several
hundred yards. Unfortunately, our erstwhile friend appears to have
seen George's act, because from that moment forward, for the next
30-40 miles of snarled traffic, this guy treats every opportunity we
have to pass him as an AMA Superbike season-ending finale with the
title on the line. He certainly seemed to be having a good time,
passing on the shoulder, passing while utilizing right-hand turn
lanes, and generally running amuck in traffic. Apparently his
passenger wasn't as thrilled, because we saw the last of him as he
pulled over to a stop in the breakdown lane with her leaning around
him and jawing furiously into his ear.
The rest of the ride back was less memorable, including a violant rain
squall that we saw far enough off in the distance to prepare for by
stoppign and donning our rain gear; still it hit on ON the Chesapeake
Bay Bridge westbound with high winds and driving torrential rain. Fun
riding conditions. Only lasted about 20 minutes and then cleared up.
I waved goodbye to those two at their exit and rode solo home to
Herndon and home without further incident.
Good fries. Good ride, about 400 miles total. Good friends. A good
day.
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