Yesterday's clouds, coolish temperatures and occasional raindrops were welcome by most folks but I did receive an e-mail from a viewer who had taken his motorcycle to work based on my forecast of a "slight" chance of rain. Now, in my own shaky defense, I will say that not everyone got rain and, for most who did, it was less than a tenth of an inch. I don't want to sound like just another over-sensitive, hyper-defensive weatherperson but "Waaahhh. Quit being so mean to me....Waaahhh. This is a hard job. Waaaah." There, now that that's out of my system...I did send an e-mail to the biker, apologizing for his soggy ride. Maybe his disappointment would be less, if he knew that, at one time, I, too, rode a cycle. It wasn't really a Hog...more of a piglet.

When I moved to Las Vegas at the age of 18, the insurance rates to have a car in that city, at that age, were out of sight for someone working as a front desk clerk at the only hotel in town with not even a slot machine. (We weren't exactly a hot-bed of activity. The Rat Pack never hung out there but we did have a guy in a brown jump suit that came by everyday for soup and a hot dog in the coffee shop. Sometimes he'd whistle Fly Me To The Moon. He was our regular.) Anyway, I bought a red scooter. The helmet I wore was bigger than the vehicle itself. I looked more like an old Atom Ant than a young Marlon Brando, as I tooled off to work each day. Once, after riding for a couple weeks, I got a little full of myself. I saw a pot-hole ahead and, instead of going around, I decided to do an Evel Knievel. When I was growing up, Evel was always jumping something...a row of cars...a line of busses...the Grand Canyon....Orson Welles. So, I actually stopped the scooter, got off, took a little piece of wood from the side of the road and a couple of rocks to create a ramp. Then, I leaped back on and gunned it. I must have reached about 25 miles per hour as I hit the ramp. Up...up...up I flew. I swear I heard Chuck Yeager cheering for me. I almost made it. Almost. The back tire came down hard in the pot-hole and stopped the bike completely. I did not stop, completely or any other way. Forget Atom Ant, Brando, or Evel...now I was Underdog. Flying through the air and coming to rest on a pile of gravel to the side of the street. I wasn't hurt. Nobody saw it. My dignity was intact but the same could not be said for my suit. I arrived at work looking rather tattered. Fortunately, the desk clerk I was relieving was old Roy. He worked overnight and, by morning, didn't pay any attention to anyone...except the folks to whom he would make the wake-up calls. Ever since one woman had told Roy he had an attractive voice, he had taken the wake-up call duty very seriously. He was the Robert Goulet of "Good morning...here's your wake-up call. Grrrrrrr." In any case, he didn't notice my condition. (This story is particularly ironic when you consider that, later today, I am a guest speaker at Butler, Missouri's "Safety Village!" I will be the example of what not to do, I guess.)

In my Las Vegas days, I also took my scooter to see shows. It was always fun to pull up to, say, the Sands to see Tony Bennett, and have the valet park my little red friend. Usually, they just let me stow it next to their booth or stand. One guy would always ask if the leader of my "gang" was Strawberry Shortcake or if I ever got into a rumble with toughs from Romper Room. I never had to tip them because they all said the chuckle they got watching me arrive and depart was payment enough.

The little, red scooter stayed behind when I left Las Vegas, but I still have fond memories of speeding along the highways and byways at an average speed of 15 mph...wind whistling through my helmet...bugs splattering on my teeth...dogs laughing too hard to chase me. Yes, those days are behind me but, rest assured, if Strawberry Shortcake ever gets into a tight spot, I'll be there.