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“What? You two are just gonna pussy out?” the guy asks, revving his Harley and backing out of his parking spot in front of the bar we’ve been huddling in for the last hour or so.

Mike and I, and the rest of our party, are soaked to the skin. Not just soaked; flooded, drenched, waterlogged, saturated, practically submerged, squishing in our shoes.

“Looks that way,” I reply. “Mike just getting over a cold and I don’t want to push it riding wet like this. When you’re self-employed, there’s no such thing as calling in sick.”

Actually, that’s the “pussy” part of this exchange. Yes, Mike’s been sick, but the real reason we’re bailing is because the guy questioning Mike’s — and I guess my — manhood is a moron. However, I don’t want to get into a honesty battle here, we just want to leave, and a benign half-truth appears to be the most efficient face-saving way to get that done.

The rest of the group nods with understanding and suits up to continue the day’s trek. I throw a leg over the back of our Yamaha, grip Mike with my thighs and he and I light out for home. As we pull past the moron he revs his engine again, shakes his head, and curls his lip in a sneer of superiority.

As we pull onto the road Mike says over his shoulder “What a dick.” I couldn’t agree more. (more…)

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