A couple times a year I
take a road trip. At least one trip brings me to Colorado like the one
I just did last week. It's an 800 mile trek and takes me about 12 hours
depending on traffic.
Therein
lies the rub - traffic. Over the years I've developed a couple pet
peeves and where better to air my asphalt stained laundry than in an 'Ode to
Roadhogs' blog.
#1 - The 2
Milers - Please understand I don't have anything against
our great brethren of the 18 wheelers. Those Road Warriors are
responsible for transporting valuable goods including Jack
Daniels across this great land. But I despise the 2 Milers.
You've been behind these jokers. They're running single file across the
flat lands at a good clip but as soon as they hit a little hill their
speed drops to something resembling Granny in a walker.
But there's always one (1) who feels his truck has the capability of going two (2) miles an hour faster than all the others so he has to swing out into the passing lane. Mile after dogged mile, hour upon hour, he stokes the fires in his diesel trying to creep by his cohorts gaining maybe one foot for every vertical mile traveled. Meanwhile traffic is backing up to the Mexican border waiting for this Macho Man and his diesel manhood to prove themselves.
GET OUTA THE WAY YA SCHMENDRAKE.
#2 - The
Winnebago Caravan. There's only one thing
I hate worse than seeing one of these behemoths rolling down
the road and that's seeing one of THESE ancient
whales breaking wind. 
It never fails that as soon as I hit two lane roads up out of Flagstaff (or anywhere in the civilized world I travel), there's one of these clunkers destroying enough ozone to melt Greenland. And if that's not bad enough, they travel in convoys or caravans or some damn thing and they're always clumped together so that you have to have about 12 or 17 miles of no traffic in the oncoming lane to pass all these chuckleheads - cause sure as you're born, they're not gonna back off enough to let you sneak back in if a car approaches head-on.
Plus there's always a few cars stranded in the middle of the pack somewhere that got stuck in there by mistake and now they're going to end up going wherever the Winnebago's go because they can't figure out how to get back out again. If you do get lucky and come to a passing lane, see peeve #1 above. One of these clowns always thinks he can pass the others so he blows the whole passing lane trying to prove it only to back off at the last minute as the lanes merge, usually crushing a small car in his wake. Meanwhile the thing is shaking and quaking and blowing enough black smoke to camouflage an aircraft carrier. The only saving grace is when you see one of those big smooth black spots on the edge of the asphalt where one of these finally spontaneously combusted after a lifetime of irritating motorists.
#3 - The Great 'Outlaw' Trail Riders. The last category is probably the worst. For whatever reason, the first two groups appear to be almost accidental. They are too far gone to figure out that they're not the only ones on the road and if ignorance is bliss, the first two categories are very happy campers indeed. Not so with this third group.
They are keenly aware
that they are not alone on the road and the fact that they are often
victimized makes their lunacy almost counter-intuitive. I'm
talking about the line of motorcycles riding two abreast (or four if
their wives are with them) stretching for miles and miles across the
country, the great trail ride from hell involving hundreds if not
thousands of obnoxiously loud, smelly, fuming beasts (and their
motorcycles).
Apparently bikers are incapable of traveling alone or even in pairs but observe some unwritten rule that they roam only in groups of 417 or greater. Now I'm not talking about the true 'outlaw' riders of whom I would never say a discouraging word (aw, why not, they don't read blogs?). I'm talking about the weekend warriors, sometimes on Harleys but more often on a mix of rice rockets, granny bikes, big old Goldwings, farty little dirt bikes - all mixed into a conglomeration traveling at 5 - 10 miles under the posted limit. Trying to pass a group like this is an exercise in futility and defensive driving. Not only will they not narrow their profile to allow easy passage, they actually expand like a cheap sponge until they present a solid phalanx 8 feet wide by 4.73 miles long. And they get surly if you pass, and they make rude gestures and slap your car and make you afraid to pull in for gas for the next couple days. The only good thing is most of the riders are even older and fatter than me - so I get a runnin' start.
Well, that's my rant for the day - I just had to get that off my chest so thanks for indulging me. My vacation is actually going great and if you care you can read more about it here:
#1.
Myths & Legends of the Great SouthwestTherein
lies the rub - traffic. Over the years I've developed a couple pet
peeves and where better to air my asphalt stained laundry than in an 'Ode to
Roadhogs' blog.#1 - The 2
Milers - Please understand I don't have anything against
our great brethren of the 18 wheelers. Those Road Warriors are
responsible for transporting valuable goods including Jack
Daniels across this great land. But I despise the 2 Milers.
You've been behind these jokers. They're running single file across the
flat lands at a good clip but as soon as they hit a little hill their
speed drops to something resembling Granny in a walker.But there's always one (1) who feels his truck has the capability of going two (2) miles an hour faster than all the others so he has to swing out into the passing lane. Mile after dogged mile, hour upon hour, he stokes the fires in his diesel trying to creep by his cohorts gaining maybe one foot for every vertical mile traveled. Meanwhile traffic is backing up to the Mexican border waiting for this Macho Man and his diesel manhood to prove themselves.
GET OUTA THE WAY YA SCHMENDRAKE.
#2 - The
Winnebago Caravan. There's only one thing
I hate worse than seeing one of these behemoths rolling down
the road and that's seeing one of THESE ancient
whales breaking wind. It never fails that as soon as I hit two lane roads up out of Flagstaff (or anywhere in the civilized world I travel), there's one of these clunkers destroying enough ozone to melt Greenland. And if that's not bad enough, they travel in convoys or caravans or some damn thing and they're always clumped together so that you have to have about 12 or 17 miles of no traffic in the oncoming lane to pass all these chuckleheads - cause sure as you're born, they're not gonna back off enough to let you sneak back in if a car approaches head-on.
Plus there's always a few cars stranded in the middle of the pack somewhere that got stuck in there by mistake and now they're going to end up going wherever the Winnebago's go because they can't figure out how to get back out again. If you do get lucky and come to a passing lane, see peeve #1 above. One of these clowns always thinks he can pass the others so he blows the whole passing lane trying to prove it only to back off at the last minute as the lanes merge, usually crushing a small car in his wake. Meanwhile the thing is shaking and quaking and blowing enough black smoke to camouflage an aircraft carrier. The only saving grace is when you see one of those big smooth black spots on the edge of the asphalt where one of these finally spontaneously combusted after a lifetime of irritating motorists.
#3 - The Great 'Outlaw' Trail Riders. The last category is probably the worst. For whatever reason, the first two groups appear to be almost accidental. They are too far gone to figure out that they're not the only ones on the road and if ignorance is bliss, the first two categories are very happy campers indeed. Not so with this third group.
They are keenly aware
that they are not alone on the road and the fact that they are often
victimized makes their lunacy almost counter-intuitive. I'm
talking about the line of motorcycles riding two abreast (or four if
their wives are with them) stretching for miles and miles across the
country, the great trail ride from hell involving hundreds if not
thousands of obnoxiously loud, smelly, fuming beasts (and their
motorcycles). Apparently bikers are incapable of traveling alone or even in pairs but observe some unwritten rule that they roam only in groups of 417 or greater. Now I'm not talking about the true 'outlaw' riders of whom I would never say a discouraging word (aw, why not, they don't read blogs?). I'm talking about the weekend warriors, sometimes on Harleys but more often on a mix of rice rockets, granny bikes, big old Goldwings, farty little dirt bikes - all mixed into a conglomeration traveling at 5 - 10 miles under the posted limit. Trying to pass a group like this is an exercise in futility and defensive driving. Not only will they not narrow their profile to allow easy passage, they actually expand like a cheap sponge until they present a solid phalanx 8 feet wide by 4.73 miles long. And they get surly if you pass, and they make rude gestures and slap your car and make you afraid to pull in for gas for the next couple days. The only good thing is most of the riders are even older and fatter than me - so I get a runnin' start.
Well, that's my rant for the day - I just had to get that off my chest so thanks for indulging me. My vacation is actually going great and if you care you can read more about it here:
#2. Trout Lake Colorado - My Slice of Heaven
#3. The Smugglers Union Mine - Travels at Timberline
Gene
Wunderlich - Selling Southwest California Homes including
Temecula, Murrieta & The Southern California Wine Country
Remember, Don't wait to buy real estate - Buy real estate and wait.
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