Everybody is a racer

... And all of this racer. If you doubt that you will never apparently initiated in New York during peak hours. Look closely at the driver of that Japanese luxury car. It is just as miffed as you the racer is on disk, not fifty-five miles per hour when the speedometer on the car clearly reads one hundred and fifty. Why can not we drive it at that speed if the car can come close to it. Man, just look at him fiddling with a protuberance pretending to be the settings for the radio station. We racers know what he actually does at the present time, the frequency of his imaginary laser beam removal of the road system. Do you know about them, but make little bomb sounds as we pretend we destroy our enemies on the drive home.

If you really want to annoy him to honk your horn, tailgate him for a few seconds, then cut in front of him. When it reaches its boiling point, slam the brakes on your drive, and slower than you had it happen before. then apply your brakes the drive, and slower than you were going to cut it. His typical response will be one of anger, anger borne of pent-up frustration to live in a world of high technology and the law on low-tech existence. Our driver will always be a knife on the gas pedal, and the deviation from the band in an attempt to convey to you. You, in turn, speed, knowing that his intention was to block the passage of you at the earliest opportunity, and then check the brakes just because you receive a message.

And so it is a high-speed game of "chicken" unfolds on every road and gracefully move to within two road-warriors to wage scene. I participated in more than a few such duels, though recently I have chosen as an observer to someone else's road rage. This emotionally charged ego-deactivate can be very dangerous for anyone near the scene.

Society says we should be penalized for violation of their right to a maximum speed of fifty-five miles per hour (in New York, at least). Most racers will try to leave the same as we can, as well as on the track and usually have the skills to pull it. The typical driver lacks all the necessary skills and courage to pursue them, and so after one or two hundred dollars more than the speed of the tickets, tickets the potential racer in the thirst for life, usually briefly, flatter than Spongebob in the desert of Arizona. They return home, as a rule, more frustration, angrier, and the two bills, poorer. I'm glad I race motorcycles and I am very glad I have a family of people who know and think and feel exactly as I have ... We are fortunate to be a real racer.

The drivers are not the only ones who act like lunatics. Anyone who has walked on the motion, or in Manhattan
tickets can attest to the fact that the craziest of all people is not a "checkered Cabbus-Weavus"; that honor belongs to the Al-Pedestrius suit-yerbutt ", a terrible New York pedestrian.

No other form of life on the planet, capable of looking in his eyes wandering in a tractor-trailer driver, and then activates nonchalantly toward his serpentine behemoth. If you have never seen eighteen thousand pounds of truck with all the wheels locked up you do not know what you missed. In puff blue smoke at a distance of one warning about the presence of Al-Pedestrius Su-yerbutt ".

Despite the fact that the driver of the truck vibrations uncontrollably, trying to bring his heartbeat back under the three hundred mark ", Pedestrius Al-Su-yerbutt" flashes an ear to ear grin. And why would not they, they just looked and the fear of death in the face, and walked outside unharmed. Others may only look in amazement, the children will point in their direction with wonder and awe. They are at the moment, as they idolized beauty of fifteen seconds worth of their fifteen minutes of fame. They will be in the languages of all those who saw their gutsy moves,

"Holy cripes, did you see that?"

I'm glad I race motorcycles and I am very glad I have a family of people who know and think and feel exactly as I have ... We are fortunate to be a real racer, and our output.

Before we forget that this is Moto-cross story, let me get to the heart of the matter. This is just how we like off-road riders and racers should be thankful. Unlike road rager and Al-Pedestrius suit-yerbutt ", we do not have to drive our cars at a hundred and twenty miles per hour, while we should not tempt fate by stepping in front of the speed of the trucks just to feel that surge of adrenaline. Thank God, we are real racers ... I do. We are not so fortunate, as the people who live in these two examples, not racers.

We are normal, we can take our frustration at the machines, which were intended for the healers of our pressures and frustrations. We Moto-cross and the woods to keep us sane. How fortunate we really are. I'm glad I race motorcycles and I am very glad I have a family of people who know and think and feel exactly as I have ... I was fortunate to be among real racers. So when you next secret witnesses to any of the above-mentioned dramas, you know ... people mad, and all of this racer.