tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-70024470800155801042012-02-06T16:41:37.047-05:00Sunny Ryder Rides Again; A Serial E-Novel AdventureAnn Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.comBlogger151100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-36861849178272118682012-02-06T16:40:00.002-05:002012-02-06T16:40:51.906-05:00

<!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-90018509987119074392011-10-06T20:00:00.000-04:002011-10-06T20:00:40.464-04:00

Maybe I should have suspected that the Inn wasn’t best suited for a solid nap when the woman at the front desk, snarling through her tooth, asked me how many hours I would need the room. “You mean how long?  Just one night.”  I replied.  Confused. Squinting over cracked and yellowed spectacles like I was the dumbest thing going, “No.  Hours.  I said hours.  How many hours do you want the

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-4532979629486663802011-09-29T16:47:00.003-04:002011-10-06T20:01:31.618-04:00

At-speed, a motorcycle will stay upright and run a straight line.  It’s called ghost riding. A rider is kicked off for doing something dumb, or knocked off by an even dumber driver of a car, and the bike resettles itself and continues on its merry way.  At least until it slows from lack of rider keeping the throttle open and falls over.    A bike will also stay straight with an inattentive rider

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-89579195275200434242011-09-27T21:50:00.000-04:002011-09-27T21:50:22.085-04:00

<!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]>

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-50412531835071281842011-09-26T17:24:00.004-04:002011-10-06T20:02:19.225-04:00

My little bungalow, hidden away in the keys, was nearly off the grid.  Useful.  And the way I liked it.    But a good northern girl never gets over the wonders of seasonal change.  I could be in Florida another two decades (perish the thought!) and I would still miss the smell of fall leaves wafting along the crisp autumn wind on a football Sunday, snow, and the joy of seeing the spring’s first

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-68699917205615791852011-09-25T20:49:00.000-04:002011-09-25T20:49:04.697-04:00

Flame thrower or leaf blower?   Needed clean socks and undies.  And somewhere under the heap of mess against the wall was the dresser that entombed them. At least I found a pair of jeans clean enough that I wasn't afraid of being bitten when pulling them on.  And a couple t-shirts that didn't knock me out when I picked them up and held them at nose level. Bike gear was in the garage.  So was

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-68134664256794809432011-06-16T00:03:00.000-04:002011-06-16T00:03:50.138-04:00

The sludge at the bottom of my coffee mug was less daunting than the mess that was my bungalow.  Pack?   I couldn’t even see the dresser, which housed the all important clean undies and socks, for the mess that was collected around and on top of it.  This was particularly important because you cannot overstate the importance of clean socks and undies when traveling.  First, I needed to

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-22963970196995444632011-06-11T22:03:00.000-04:002011-06-11T22:03:49.889-04:00

Staggering into the kitchen, I find the coffee pot.  Testing it for proper strength, I held it up to the light:  solid black, not light peeped through the thick sludge inside.  Perfect.  I poured myself a mug-full and shuffled back to the bedroom where the phone and Jimmy were waiting for me. Wow, that bed looked comfortable.  Must not lay down, must not lay down... "Hey, Jimmy?  I'm back." "

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-86513283750096999522011-05-23T22:17:00.001-04:002011-05-23T22:22:30.355-04:00

I dislike the phone.  I write letters, mail postcards, send hundreds of emails and even more texts, but is something to be avoided.  I mean, think about it.  You are at a complete disadvantage when someone calls you. Even assuming you have caller ID, you still don't know why the person on the other end is calling you.  If you pick up the phone, you've committed to have a discussion about a topic

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-85794246939632074322011-05-19T21:25:00.000-04:002011-05-19T21:25:30.052-04:00

I tried to stand, but toppled over the tree trunk and face-planted into my bike instead.  In return, it greeted me a good morning by popping a hose and spattering unidentifiable goo at me.  I feebly punched the motorcycle in retaliation.  Like it mattered.  My bike was lying on its side, covered in dirt, spattered with mud, and topped off with a heart-breaking collection of dents, scratches, the

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-6970344736496838912011-05-18T20:36:00.002-04:002011-05-18T20:38:30.764-04:00

Ouch!  Puncture wound in my kidney!  What is that poking me?  Rogue mattress spring?  Reaching underneath me, I could feel... a twig. Twig?  Why is there a twig in my bed?  Where is my bed? Okay.  Quick assessment:  no hangover, still fully clothed, nothing broken, fingers and toes move.  Wow!  Really hurt to move the fingers and toes.  In fact, everything hurt.  Or ached.  Or stung.  Or all

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-90935801112063789812011-05-17T23:42:00.001-04:002011-05-17T23:43:08.353-04:00

Totally screwed. And faced with a non-choice.  The sun had long since dropped behind the mountains and only the faintest light was sneaking through the leaves and branches.  My pursuers were following my tail light.  A big, neon red, "Here I am; Come and get me!" Even if I had the time to stop and cut the wires to the tail lights, which I didn't, they would still be able to spot the headlight. 

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-16672268790211740552011-05-16T14:03:00.001-04:002011-05-16T14:05:47.879-04:00

Not much has change since the day I watched the clean-up crew scrape the remains of my motorcycle off the ground and hauled them away to the Agency's compound dump and incinerator. I didn’t like being told what to do then.  Still don’t.  It might be why I’m currently unemployed? But with age comes wisdom, even if wisdom isn't necessarily accompanied by either temperance or maturity.  By the

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-89990136589022616582011-05-15T20:03:00.000-04:002011-05-15T20:03:18.187-04:00

When in doubt, lean. Then lean harder. Push that bar so hard you think either it or your shoulder will crack under the pressure. This is some of the best advice I have ever received.  I've never forgotten it.  Even if, at the time, I was a less than appreciative recipient. Not too surprising, I suppose.  I standing over the eviscerated wreckage of what had been my brand shining new,

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7002447080015580104.post-78649408965620734062011-05-15T19:59:00.003-04:002011-05-16T14:46:18.141-04:00

I aspire to write a novel.  I have the attention span of a blogger. The compromise?  A serial e-novel: the ostensible book for those with ADD.  No lengthy chapters.  Just short, or shorter, daily excerpts.  The occasional digression or a post about a character outside the storyline. Only I not know where the story will travel, or how it will end.  I have no idea what happens tomorrow.  Or

Ann Dalyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05475656135529427467noreply@blogger.com0