This morning, we left so early the half moon in Taurus was still up in the sky all the way to wherever it was the Donners ate each other way back in the day. Dead, yellow Sacramento disappeared, the temperature dropped 20 degrees, and all the trees grew lovely, dark, and deep.
The worst part is definately the platonic driver situation. I started out with my hands on his shoulders, because I'm not going to straddle him - he's Platonic Joe. You don't straddle the driver on a Harley anyway, you sit up high behind him. I do dream of of clinging to KBong on a Kawasaki in Hawaii but that's not the case here, so now I just put my hands on my own thighs unless we're going around some sharp corner. Platonic Joe doesn't really go all that fast anyway, probably for my safety.
I like how dudes in Sentras and Priuses look over at us longingly. Like they wish they were Platonic Joe or something. I assume I look hot. I know I'd look hotter on a crotch rocket with my ass up in the air (I have a nice ass), but alas(s). They also don't know my hair and makeup have devolved to absolute shit under that helmet, so there is some level of mystique.
I try my best to Eckhart Tolle it up and live in the moment, but Mercurial me thinks of ways to communicate via the written word every bit of what I see the whole time. I'm not doing that great in this particular instance, I know, but it's because I developed heatstroke upon reentering 102 degree Sacramento on the way back. I'm still recovering brain cells at this moment.