Docent of a mixed memory...



The shark finned roadster, surprisingly
enough, didn't handle all that well on
the mountain roads. Perhaps using the
nautical dash-mounted cruise control
was a bad idea. The tiny Overpass Bar
& Grill patrons, mostly Hells Angels
and a few aliens, ignored our presence.
Every bike and truck sported those phony
plastic wind propellers. Suddenly the
winds kicked up, everyone's propellers
began to spin (except Amphi's), dust
filled the air and the sun was eclipsed by
a passing ship. More aliens appeared, a
few bikers departed. Someone with only
four fingers handed me a cold beer and
asked, "Vin number?" I replied, "915"
and punctuated it with a long pull from
my beer. No thumb dude just nodded and
whispered, "You're up next." The ramp
to Hidden Lake was unrealistically steep,
like Niagara Falls with a concrete surface.
Amphi told me entering the Birdman
Competition was a bad idea. I was inclined
to agree during the 20 foot freefall. The
shoreline pulsated with shockwaves from our
entry and then seemingly faded beyond
our view. It took over an hour to reach an
egress-able beach which wasn't totally
encrusted with rusty bikes, shattered boats,
or melted beer bottles. Once was enough,
but I did want another beer?

'64 Turquoise
San Diego, CA
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