This morning, it seems, someone swapped my regular of dose of Raisin Bran with a big bowl of stupid. The scrape of the knee-puck is official notice; I’m being an idiot and my actions are heroic foolishness only in the bench-racing retellings. This is November, above the fog layer it is clear and cold, and the only thing keeping me from my doom is the loads of grip provided by the vaguely warm Michelin Pilot Power tires and the superb handling characteristics of the Ducati 999 Monoposto… commuting has never been so good.
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