I noticed the speedometer creeping up past Speeding and into Stupid. Time to ease up on that, then. I turned up the music - A3s "Exile on Coldharbour Lane". Brilliant stuff.
What in the world / has come over me...
The tension started in my shoulders, that peculiar ache of unsued muscle, a push that meets no resistance. My hands were travelling loops around the steering wheel, trying to twist its hard plastic cover when they were still long enough to get a grip. My feet twitched up and down, impatiently flicking through ghost gears.
Woke up this morning / Got yourself a gun...
Knowing what the problem was didn't seem to help much. My body was positioned wrong. I felt it twisting in the seat, writhing under the belt.
Your monkey's messing with bad medicine / So you feed it with a Jones
It knew: you fit astride and engine, not behind one! What kind of seat lets you move side-to-side, instead of forward-and-back?
The only conclusion: riding is a drug, and I was jonesing in a bad way.