...and then, Europe: 2021-02-22 18:00 (UTC)
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Although the recent entries only superficially and encrypted touched the subject, but from this season — if it ever comes - there won't be ever again more the moral of the traffic is like this, or like that entry. Not by Hungarian or international standards, as things have basically the same overlapping.

I don't believe that an annually 12 000+ km distances travelled touring motorcyclist should add more weight to the terabytes of the internet with reiterating things like the tragicomical misses of the index signal use. Of course, he can shape it into a tremendously poignant wittiness, and there's enough space, but still, why?

I know-I know. Senna and Schumacher humbly took lessons from you. You still don't have the instinctive motion to move the index lever while turning the wheel.

Doesn't befit and neither makes too much sense.

Endless lists.

When you irresponsibly stop not in the middle but on the left side of the bus lane at the red light (in Hungary, based on respectable common sense one-track vehicles are allowed to use the bus lane). Abusing this, a cab driver pulls up next to you from the right, and by the orange light launches like a rocket, about a half millimeter away from your arm. At the next red light for the sentence You should have waited that one second. get the reply: ********, I did fit next to you, no?
What's shorter, is shorter. One must compensate.
The first time you ever sit on a sport bike, do a few miles to get comfy together, after an exit from a roundabout and a few seconds later notice that the car behind is basically on the rear wheel, and wants to push you down from the road — then on a general 90 km/h road hastes away with about 130 km/h. You follow the car for a while, then stop at the next petrol station to exhale a deep breath. The car turns back at the next roundabout and appears next to you. A not-so successful looking station wagon with a not-so successful looking male, besides a potentially least successful looking female passenger. Both mouths splutter wisdom, which suddenly chokes into silence as they notice the recording camera on your chest. The woman crawls back into the shadows, lets Daddy to do the articulation, and now you learn that you cut me off asshole. To your answer that it wasn't intentional, and as to the question Do you think it's proportional to endanger someone because of this? With a car? the reply is a huge silence. Then he still feels lucky: I can ride better than you. You ignore them, leave them. All of them, always say this. They always leave their first place motorcycle racing cups at home. That's why they sit in cars. Especially in twenty years old overused cars. It's a staple habit of real bikers sitting in a car, to push down other bikers from the road.
What's shorter, is shorter. One must compensate.
A railway cross, where on the other side the newbuild construction driver in a 12+ ton truck made the decision: he doesn't wait, he's in a hurry, he is going to turn onto the road — thus forces the traffic to stop in the middle of the railway crossing. Then he roams on the small suburb streets, since there are only a few people anymore, who still remember the disappeared, late Prohibited to enter above 12 tons signs.

How could ancient vans and minibuses get the mechanical certificates, screeching vehicles just by looking at them fall apart, but at least produce heavy smokes that makes everyone around get lung cancer immediately. But then my dear quarter bit doesn't get it and doesn't get it and grumbles about those asshole bikers who rev up the engine screaming and take over.

I do whatever I want to do in the fast lane — I have rights.

I have been living here for ages — for me it is enough to watch the traffic with one, half-closed eye.

I am a very important person — I must make calls, all the times. I have principles, I won't buy any loudspeaker.

And all the rest.

It may return if high priority issues demanded it, otherwise the moral of the traffic is what everyone knows, sees, hears, smells, is how and what of it is.

- Oh, I thought it was a reflection of something?!
- Absolutely. The glint on the metal wheel-chair, after my legs were amputated. Just kidding. It was the lacquer of my coffin or the faint candle light next to my urn.

My own lessons have been learned: for instance, doesn't matter how really good it feels, be a pleasant ride even in the rain, an experience to see the majestic mountains with snow on the peaks — but on serpentine roads in the Alps, one does not open the throttle up to 70 before the hairpin curve.

Even, if, might be…the arrival downshift should rather go down to the first gear.

Rationally calculated, if no new entry arrives for two months, then a dark car with contrast appeared on the horizon.

Change of subject comes.

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