This morning's ride was an experience:
The fog had visibility down to about 100 feet in some places, and slowly creeped inside my protective gear and robbed me of any warmth.
A moron in a minivan keeps whipping past me like he's preparing for Daytona, then getting caught at the next light. He does this three or four times before I pull up, put the bike in neutral next to him and flip my visor up, looking at his vehicle and shaking my head.
The driver rolls down his window, asks, "What?"
"Just looking for the race-car stickers. Those kids in back getting paid to be on your race team, bub?" I reply.
He gets crosseyed once he figures out what I said, and what it means. I motor away while he tries to formulate a response.