A Snowball in Hell
This is a picture of Roxanne on the way home from Baton Rouge the last time we rode the motorcycle down from N. Arkansas to Jim's for the Saint Patrick's Day Pig Roast.
Here's how it works:
First, on planning the trip down to Baton Rouge, the sun always shines, warm and welcoming as any invitation of Jim's. "Sure, ride the bike, it'll be fun! Weather's going to be perfect!"
So you ride down and have a lot of fun. See some friends you haven't seen in awhile. You drink too much, eat too much of Mike's incredible grilling (mmm, that is reason enough to go to the party, even if you don't particularly like Jim), and you solve many of the world's problems, that usually happens at what, 2 or 3 o'clock in the morning, I think.
The time to go home finally arrives. On these Sunday mornings, you don't usually recognize the sleep-deprivational burnout, for it is covered up by an exotic wine, beer and whiskey hangover. Sometimes a little goldschlager thrown in for color. Two pots of coffee doesn't help much, except to disguise the taste of whatever is making vile threats and promises at the back of your throat. Still, you have to go home, there's no way around it. Jim says he does not want or need another son. You look at the bike, pretty sure you can handle the throttle, brake, maybe even the clutch. Hopefully, the huge machine will not have any external balancing requirements.
Minutes before it is time to start for home, surprise! The temperature takes a nose dive, shucking between 35 and 50 degrees in a matter of minutes. Records are shattered on these Sunday mornings, making you feel really special. The TV announcer makes it clear that this unexpected cold front coming in from the north will last several days. Furthermore, should you decide to wait until tomorrow to leave, it will be accompanied by fierce rain and possibly hail. There's nothing to do but bundle up (assuming you've brought enough clothes) and head for home.
Is that...frost..on the windshield? No way, man. This is Baton Rouge in March.
And that's how it was the last time Roxanne and I rode the bike down to Jim's for St. Paddy's Day. On the way home, about a hundred miles north of Baton Rouge, we stopped for gas and coffee and I snapped this picture of Roxanne. The picture is named snowball.jpg. Perhaps I thought that was funny. Is she smiling?
While Roxanne went in to order coffee and cocoa, I pumped gas into the bike. As I entered the little anteroom leading into the restaurant, there was a black cook in a dirty apron standing in the hall with one of the waitresses. He was laughing so hard, he was actually doubled over. When he saw me, he almost choked, I though he was going to fall down. Pointing at me and gasping for breath, he finally got it out, "Oh no...h.. h.. here comes the other one!"
Apparently when he'd seen Roxanne come in from the cold looking like this (see pic) he'd had to physically leave the restaurant to have his uncontrollable laughing fit, dragging the waitress along either to share the moment or administer CPR, I'm not sure.
I've probably told this story before, but I ran across this picture, and felt like telling it again.
The Bad Ted
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