Sunday marked the end of Raleigh’s annual Bikefest. It’s a three day event in which thousands of Harley enthusiasts take up two square blocks in downtown, to show off their hogs and push their leathery goods. I’m not anti-biker but I dread the event, nonetheless.
*Lady Talk Time*. It’s Saturday and I wake up at 6:24 a.m. to that all too familiar feeling of my body revolting against me. My “little friend” had decided to pay me a visit. At this moment, Sigourney Weaver of Alien might be the only one who truly understands my pain.
Doubled over, I crept towards the kitchen in search of my jumbo bottle of ibuprofen. I refilled my glass of water and grabbed my heating pad from the linen closet on my way back to bed. I’ve known for a while that my heating pad has been used and abused, and is in need of replacement. Heat is the only thing that alleviates the cramp pains but upon examination of my heating pad’s frayed wires, I knew that plugging the thing in would surely be a death sentence. No girl wants to go out like that.
I popped four ibuprofen and waited for a modicum of relief. Nothing doing. I just needed heat. As a last resort, I grabbed my laundry iron, heated it up and wrapped it in a towel. Four more ibuprofen had been ingested and the heat of the iron was working it’s sleepy magic.
I was so close. The heavy, cushy arms of rest were finally enveloping me and I was beginning to see the first glimmer of a peaceful dream.
Then this happened…or something pretty damn close.
I curse often but when flustered, my curse words are sloppily strung together, like that of an immigrant who is trying too hard to cuss like an American. I can’t recite what I said verbatim but in my groggy wakefulness, I think it sounded something like this: Shit, Dammit . Are you fucking shitting me you stupid bikers?
It’s not eloquent, and I’m not necessarily scary but Hell hath no fury like a lady with cramps.
I slept after that and worked after that. I fended off a stalker and listened to a co-worker’s story about a cat. She’s a 20 year old girl and this was her story: “It’s so funny; my boyfriend’s frat house has a cat living in it'”. That’s it. That was the beginning, middle and end of her story. I smiled through the pain.
I should have been over the whole Bikefest thing by Sunday but something about the way their leathery skin matches their saddlebags, drew me in.
I arrived just as the event was coming to a close. I was armed with my camera and ready for photo ops, but the only bikes that remained were what I call the minivans of motorcycles. Hogs they are not. They’re more like a sow with piglets.
They look something like this.
So…no, I didn’t get any good shots of tough bikes but I did get a good shot of an abandoned 50’s car that’s been converted in to a truck (1st photo). I’d drive it. If you look closely, you’ll see paw prints. Raccoons? Cats? I have no idea but apparently these animals are embracing the trend of small space living. #trendyanimals #Ineverusehashtags
I’m feeling much better now. Thank you for asking. You are now safe to approach without getting your head bitten off.