Baseball, Hotdogs, and Assholes Driving Chevrolets (2002)

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This is an open letter to the Asshole Corvette Driver that ran me off the road a few months back.

Now before all of the rest of you GOD-Fearing, Self-Respecting-Not-Speeding-AND- Staying-on-Your-Side-of-the-Road-Corvette-Owners get your panties in a bunch…. deep breath. Breathe. Again.

Now.

Now that we are all calmed down- this letter is to a very specific individual, and to the people around him or her, that are cognizant of the events that occurred on February 24th, 2002. It’s not addressed to YOU specifically if you are not one of these people. The only reason you’re getting this correspondence is because, as you will note in the list of places I emailed, this letter has gone out to virtually every outlet where Corvette Owners of the Southern California area might congregate or communicate with other Corvette Owners. I would ask those of you who received it in error to pass it on to a fellow CO. Who knows, maybe this letter might actually be read by that Half-Wit (and his cohorts).

It’s really important to me that you, The Asshole Corvette Owner Who Ran Me Off the Road, know how I feel about you. Of course, I guess I’m being optimistic, let’s face it what are the odds that the Jethro-Bodine-Behind-the-Wheel-of-His-Mid-Life-CrisisTM (you) will actually see this letter? And then what are the odds that you can even read? The math is mind-boggling.

You obviously failed to read either of the signs that day as you approached the posted, “Narrow Bridge”. Nor did you slow your Over-Compensation-for-Some-Other-Shortcoming-in-Your-Personality-Late-Model-Custom-Blue-CorvetteTM, as you turned onto the bridge at nearly 3 times the posted speed limit.

Remember that day now? Yeah, I was the guy on the motorcycle coming the other way. I was just out on a relaxing Sunday ride. I always like to just get out there, take it easy, and enjoy the feeling of freedom that my cycle gives me. I was doing slightly over the posted speed of 20 MPH. I had just passed three mountain bikers (to my right) when I looked up to see none other than you.

I guess your bony, little-girl arms (being as weak as your character) could not wrestle your mighty machine into YOUR lane- so you needed to borrow some of mine. Only problem was – I was so bold as to be it using myself! How selfish of me.

Of course those of us who have an I.Q. above that of belly button lint are at least somewhat familiar with the popular tenet of science that states “Two masses can not occupy the same space at the same time”. Somehow I guess you missed that Science class, probably when you were taking that few extra minutes in the Boys Shower to play grab-ass with one your equally homophobic, yet strangely attractive teammates.

Yeah, so I look up- and there you are. Just about halfway into my lane, approaching at a combined speed of nearly 80 MPH. Now I know why my mom always told me to wear clean underwear. Although it always seemed to me that in this type of situation- why would I want to ruin a good pair? At least with an old, crappy (pun intended) pair I was probably going to throw them away anyway.

I instinctively dipped the bike right, back towards the low, concrete rail of the bridge. There was about three, maybe four feet to squeeze through. In that same instant I had the (hopefully) once in a lifetime opportunity to look both clearly and cleanly into the gaping maw of death. And live to tell about it.

After swerving around you I could not get the bike back onto the road at the end of the bridge. There was a tight, left-hand turn and I simply could not correct the bike in time.

I suppose I should consider myself lucky that at the end of the bridge there was a ditch probably close to eight feet below the road level that was primarily sand and gravel. I rode the bike down in a spray of dirt and rock akin to what I’ve often imagined you might see as an eighteen-wheeler hits one of those “Run Away Truck” ramps on the highway.

Amazingly, I was able to walk away from the whole thing. Scratched, bruised, sore, and fucking pissed off, but otherwise quite alive.

Did you know that I had to have my bike towed out on a flatbed truck? Yeah, it was pretty much trashed. Hasn’t started since that day. I figure you owe me about $1600 (USD) for that.

I sat there in San Fransisquito Canyon for nearly four and a half hours. Waiting for first, the mountain bikers (who were kind enough to help me get my bike out of the ditch) to summon help, then for the police to arrive, and the paramedics, and ultimately Triple A.

I have three witnesses, who saw the whole thing- even gave statements to both the Police and my insurance company. Unfortunately, because of your speed, and the conspiring of your fellow Assholes-Who-Own-Corvettes TM they did not get your license plate. I was too busy crashing to get a good look at your plate. The kindly Police Officer was unable to elicit an ID from the Jack-Off-in–the-Red-Corvette, who stopped- to see if I was “Okay” but actually burned out to escape when asked his name and Corvette Club affiliation. We got his plate. You know who you are- so do I. I remember your plate clearly. The CHP caught up with you within an hour.

Being a lawyer you had all the right answers.

I don’t know his name. We just meet on a website and then show up somewhere for a drive.”

This, despite the fact that you were all in constant communication through those Super-High-Tech-Knight-Rider-Wannabe-Two-Way-Radio-Headsets you were all wearing.

I thought lawyers were somehow obligated by some (apparently empty) code of ethics to act in the name of Justice. Sad how you tarnish that fine reputation. You jackass.

Note though, that I have not said your name. I’m sure your innate sense of Justice would kick in if you felt slandered by my words.

Oooh, he called me a bad name. He hurt my feelings- now I’m entitled to 26 million dollars.”

No you shall remain anonymous, like your evil cohorts. Unless you step forward and actually admit that you didn’t have the strength of character to actually do the right thing. But that would be announcing to everyone just how pathetic you are and I’m reasonably confident you won’t do that. Whatever. There’s a special place in Hell for you too.

Oh- and on the off chance that you were telling the truth (right), I wasn’t talking about YOU- I was referring to someone else. In fact my recollection of all of the events that transpired immediately after the crash are weirdly hazy. I couldn’t even hold a pen and paper properly to write down the information for the witnesses. They were kind enough to take the pen from my shaking hands and jot down their info for me. That’s what happens to you when you are forced off the road and plummet into a ditch.

So I don’t know if it was you or not. Either way the onus is on you to prove I’m talking about you.

Hey, there’s something for Judge Judy- “Yeah, uuhh…Your Honor, see I fled the scene of a crime because I didn’t want to get all mixed up in some sort of gratuitous police investigation and legal proceeding. See, we were speeding on this two-lane road and someone in the Corvette Club I was breaking the law with nearly killed this guy on a motorcycle. And then that motorcycle-guy hurt my feelings by calling me bad names and questioning my integrity.”

Sit your sorry ass down.

Anyway, without a positive ID of the car or driver – in the state of California, it is not considered a valid “Uninsured Motorist” claim unless there is “Physical Contact” with the other vehicle. In simple terms, (because I know that’s all your Sixth-Grade Educated mind can handle) it was a good thing you did not hit me, I would most likely be dead if there had been contact. But that’s the only way the insurance company will pay for my bike. Of course I’d be dead.

Oddly, the insurance company has decided to pay for my medical expenses. I’m still trying to figure out how they can justify agreeing that it is a valid medical claim- but not a valid property claim. I’m just guessing but I think it’s because there was more damage to the bike than me. Even an Ambulance-Chasing-Lawyer wanted nothing to do with the case. Apparently I did not chum the waters with enough blood.

I paid a visit to the Antelope Valley Corvette Club- it was the conviction of one of the witnesses that your little group of 25-30 drivers might have been from there. I even took some photos of a car that looks disturbingly similar to yours. Yeah- I stopped by one Wednesday night while you all were inside having your meeting. The police have the photos and they’re “looking into it”. But I suspect that they have bigger fish to fry.

It seems highly unlikely that you will suddenly develop a conscience and try to make restitution for your, well, for lack of a better term – PISS POOR DRIVING. (Check with your lawyer buddy about what “restitution” means).

So where do I stand? The Police aren’t going to do anything, the insurance company is deferring on a technicality, and you obviously are An Asshole who can’t even take a little responsibility for your own pathetic actions. In other words- I’m not going to get any justice.

I mean, sure, I can continue to show up at the various Corvette event/get-togethers you all are so kind as to post on your websites. Walking up and down the rows of cars, looking at each blue Corvette with a special intensity. Taking photos of each car that matches the picture in my mind. Comparing them to the descriptions of the witnesses. But honestly, you people kind of weird me out. Besides how do I know The Asshole hasn’t already painted the car a different color? Do you know someone who had a blue Corvette but recently painted it? Why don’t you send me their name and license plate number? It would serve them right- and just think how well you’d sleep knowing you had somehow managed to do the right thing for a change.

Who am I kidding? There will be no Justice. I can only hope for a Karmic comeuppance for you, Oh King of All Asshole Drivers. I can only fantasize about that day- when Karma balances your particular debt. I imagine how it will choose to do so on a sunny Sunday afternoon when you’re out on some road, hot-dogging it with your fellow Corvette Owners.

Yeah- there you are – doing sixty on a tight, right-hand curve. Your bony girl-arms struggling to wrangle the savage beast that is your Corvette. You cross into the oncoming lane just as you enter a narrow, two-lane bridge.

Only this time, it’s not me in the oncoming lane. It’s a Semi-Truck, fully loaded, and clipping along at a respectful 30 MPH. I’d like to think it is hauling some sort of Bio-Hazardous material or maybe a toxic gas. Or maybe just a lot of long, pointy steel rods- capable of decorating your fancy car like a pincushion.

The force of the collision is tremendous! Amazingly the truck driver has absolutely NO injuries whatsoever.

You are not so fortunate.

As your body leaves your car, the shattered glass of the windshield will strip away your upper layer of skin. Then basic Newtonian Physics will take over for a while and you will continue on your merry way sans the protective fiberglass shell of your over-priced car. Asphalt and gravel will smooth out your ugly ass-face like one of those hobby Rock Tumblers you had when you were a kid.

When your broken body finally flops to a stop, with any luck, it will be on a salt lick, under a pretty tree. A pretty tree with thousands of ripe lemons that will drip their

Citrus-y-Acidic-Pine-Sol-Goodness onto every square inch of your freshly flayed body.

There you will lay long enough to marinate into an almost Ceviche-like state. Eventually, after each and every nerve ending of your screaming carcass has had a chance to voice its opinion to your decidedly primitive brain stem, an ambulance will show up.

After months of surgery, casts, itchy skin grafts, and sponge baths by heavy-nose-breathing-hairy-intern-wannabes, you’ll more or less be the same person you were before. The only real difference for you (in you) will be that the next time you decide to take a drive, you will pause for a moment and remember just how fragile life is. It will occur to you that maybe, just maybe, you should be a little more respectful of the power you wield each time you get into your one and a half tons of rolling death. You’ll remember that we all pay for the roads; therefore we are all entitled to use them with a modicum of safety that should be relied upon rather than simply hoped for.

Your tiny little mind will have finally wrapped itself around the idea that, not only were you a Real Dick to do what you did, but that you should never do that again.

Did any good come out of this whole thing? Perhaps. Aside from a couple of weeks of soreness in my shoulder I am virtually unscathed. Though, it was months before I could climb on another motorcycle. It’s taken that long to rebuild my shattered confidence. I guess I should be happy that I had enough presence of mind to get out of your way.

Maybe if, after reading this, you (and the others reading this) will decide to drive a lot more safely- that’d be a good thing.

Now I have a new bike, that’s cool. And I definitely ride it with a new perspective and wariness of people like you.

I honestly hope I never cross paths with you again. You better fucking hope you don’t cross mine.

That’s all I wanted to say.

Oh, and pay me for my bike- asshole.

 

xandad

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