It Was A Bad Day

I was restless the night before my Uncle's funeral. Uncle Harold had died Monday of the previous week and today, eleven days later, the memorial was held in Anderson California. I was supposed to be there. I intended to be there. It was a bad day.
Tired , unable to get my normal three and a half hours of uninterrupted sleep between trips to the urination bowl, I rose at four thirty and hurried to begin my journey to Anderson 220 miles away. It would take three and a half hours minimum to get there from Bradland and I needed an early start to make my Uncle's memorial at ten AM. The night before I had packed a suitcase, planning to take the dog and the jeep. I polished and packed dress shoes, unworn for two years. I dusted off the shoulders of a semi-ironed white dress shirt suitable for a funeral. I brought out slacks unworn for more then two years and tried them on to make sure they still fit, then packed them and the shirt. I trimmed my beard and wished I had given myself a shave before the sun went down the night before. The sun shines into the shower during the day, I can see better for work with a blade.
In the morning I changed my mind. I was feeling broke because I had to buy a new cell phone last week, and construction expenses have been adding up on the Octoberfest (living) room for the shack. I decided to take the motorcycle. My jeep has 254,000 miles on it now and would use twice the gas of the motorcycle. I worry about the jeep. The dog couldn't go, but it was probably going to be too hot for him to hang in the jeep anyway. I didn't want to explain bringing my dog to the funeral either, though those that know, know he's my significant other 99% of the time.
I had worried all night about taking the jeep. The motorcycle had a bald rear tire. Now I worried about taking it too. In the end I decided to race down to Anderson, attend the memorial, and return home on the motorcycle. Save gas money. Do the seven hour round-trip ride and grit it out. No change of clothes. No slacks, dress shirt, or polished shoes. Just Bradman with some love for my Aunt. The important thing was to be there. That was the plan.
Normally a motorcycle ride on the Road-Monster is a more pleasant thing . However, I had ridden down the valley the previous week for six hours going, and returning, and I was plain tired of road tripping. Nevertheless I was rolling down I-5 at seventy miles in hour at six thirty in the morning, 80 miles from home and right between Grants Pass and Medford, when my rear tire blew .
I've been riding Honda Goldwings for 28 years now. I bought my first one in Texas in 1981, and have owned and ridden six others in the interim. In twenty eight years of riding I have never been broken down on the road. I was lost. I felt like a Harley Davidson. I decided to ride the flat tire to the next off ramp. A mile and a half later I wound up in the Rogue Valley rest area. It was there that I flagged a Oregon State Policeman. He called me a tow truck , and the rest of this story is about a string of expenses that depleted my savings account and destroyed all hope for a new jeep anytime soon.
It was a bad day and I hope things are good there, All my sympathy to You and the Girls and the Family .

PS I thought I was going to ride those tires all summer. I had no idea the rear one was showing cord. It must have worn out very quickly in the last hundred miles . And to think I got a ticket last week doing 87 miles per hour.