Morning Adventures

It was a warm and sunny morning. The sunshine had blistered through the broken blinds only to playfully dance over my face in vain attempt to awake me from my deep slumber. It was the kind of morning where you wake up not remembering anything from the night before and the only thing on your mind is how you’re going to get up with that huge rock inside your pants. It was the type of morning where no matter how much or how hard you try to brush your teeth, your mouth tastes and smells like burnt dead baby goats. Maybe that part is just me. It was a typical morning and I was typically late. I whisked on my shirt and pants and bolted to the door. I regained my composure, walked back inside, calmly grabbed my forgotten wallet and keys and headed for the car, for reals this time. Little did I know what adventure lay before me.

I jumped into my 2001 Toyota Highlander, sporting a duel wield inline 4, equipped with 2.4 litres of true Japanese manhood cranking out 155 horses at 163 lbs of torque — all encapsulated — within 4985 lbs of gross weight. Lander (as I call him) was a force not be reckoned with. Lander and I strolled past the residential neighborhood cautiously obeying all road signs and markings — avoiding rampant children and early morning runners. We made it past the speed traps, over the hills and stopped at a deserted traffic light. I was in a good mood and though my breath still smelled like burnt dead baby goats, it was getting better with each verse of “one, two step” I hummed along.

I casually looked over to my right and the events of that faithful Thursday morning would be forever changed. There, right there, in the lane next to me lay whom shall, from this day forth, forever been known as my adversary (that means “enemy” for my less studios readers, yes — I’m looking at you). He looked back at me for what I would consider the longest 4.23 seconds of my life and then we made the eye contact, right there on weekday morning on a public road. I peered at him intensely trying to decipher the movement of his eyes through his pitch-black Dunlop sunglasses, but like a fat dyslexic kid, I could not get a read on him.

side note: I’m not sure why the dyslexic kid has got to be fat in my story, but I somehow correlate dyslexia with sloth like laziness. That, and making fun of fat people is always a surefire laugh.

We’ll call him Armstrong; Lancer Armstrong. And no, not Lancer because he had Cancer but Lancer because he would fight Lander. You god damn despicable ragdoll! We exchanged glances while keeping an eye on the traffic light through our peripheral vision. The silent showdown had begun and a monumental race was going to be had. I dislodged my focus from his helmet shaped head and cracked all but one of my knuckles in preparation for the race. I neatly placed my beautiful olive colored hands confidently over the four speed automatic gear box. I checked out his ride one more time to ensure I wasn’t going up against a sleeper or some turbo-charged madness. What was I thinking? He didn’t have anything on me; I got 55.1 inches of front hip room and a ground clearance of 6.9 inches, who does he think he is? My 106.9 inch wheelbase would run circles around him.

The light turned green and we were off. He quickly took the lead and much to my disappointment I realized I may have under estimated my opponent. Now that he was in plain sight, I could see his “Cadence Performance” stickers and his slimline performance tires. I started to hyperventilate like a fat kid with asthma (side note omitted).

But not being the quitter I made myself out to be (for literary suspense), I put the pedal to the metal and smoked him and his punkass cyclist attire. Speedo Jumpsuits got nothing on my 87 Octane. I looked back over my shoulder — past my 81 cubic feet of cargo space — and shouted victoriously, “So long sucker!” And I could seat five comfortably, too.

Adieu. Navid.