Society says we should be punished for breaking their law of a maximum velocity of fifty-five miles per hour (in New York at least). Most racers will try to get away with as much as we can, just like on the track and usually have the skills to pull it off. The typical driver lacks all of the needed skills and courage to indulge themselves and so after one or more two hundred dollar speeding tickets, the potential racer's lust for life is usually squashed flatter than Spongebob in the Arizona desert. They usually go home more frustrated, angrier, and two bills poorer. I'm glad I race motorcycles; I'm glad I have a family of people who know and think and feel exactly as I do... we are fortunate to be real racers.
Drivers aren't the only ones who are acting crazy either. Anyone who has walked or driven in Manhattan can attest to the fact that the craziest of all humans is not "Checkered Cabbus-Weavus"; that honor belongs to "Pedestrius Al-sue-yerbutt", the dreaded New York City pedestrian.
No other form of life on the planet is capable of staring into the eyes of the errant tractor-trailer driver and then stepping nonchalantly into the path of his serpentine behemoth. If you've never seen eighteen thousand pounds of truck with all the wheels locked up you don't know what you're missing. The puff of blue smoke in the distance alerts one to the presence of "Pedestrius Al-su-yerbutt."
While the truck driver shakes uncontrollably, trying to bring his heartbeat back below the three hundred mark, "Pedestrius Al-su-yerbutt" flashes an ear to ear grin. And why shouldn't they, they've just looked fear and death in the face and walked away unscathed. Others can only look on in amazement; children will point in their direction with wonder and awe. They are momentarily idolized as they relish fifteen seconds worth of their fifteen minutes of fame. They will be on the tongues of everyone who saw their gutsy moves,
"Holy cripes, did you see that?"
I'm glad I race motorcycles; I'm glad I have a family of people who know and think and feel exactly as I do... we are fortunate to be real racers and have our outlet.
Before we forget that this is a moto-cross story, let me get to the heart of the matter. The point is simply how much we as off road riders and racers have to be grateful for. Unlike the road-rager and "Pedestrius Al-sue-yerbutt," we don’t have to drive our cars at one hundred and twenty miles per hour, nor do we have to tempt fate by stepping in front of speeding trucks just to feel that surge of adrenaline. Thank God we are real racers... I do. We aren't as unlucky as the folks who live out the two examples of non-racers.
We are the normal; we can take out our frustrations on machines that were designed to be the healers of our pressures and frustrations. We have moto-cross and the woods to keep us sane. How lucky we are indeed. I'm glad I race motorcycles; I'm glad I have a family of people who know and think and feel exactly as I do... I am fortunate to be among real racers. So when next you are privy to witness any of the afore mentioned dramas, you'll know… people are crazy, and everyone is a racer.
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