Musings On The Road To Portland

The guy in the truck next to me is reaching for something waaaaay in the back, his more than ample posterior plastered against the passenger window. I remember a particular trip to the national horse show in Manhattan. As the driver frantically tried to keep pace with the other car in heavy traffic and Karen croaked, “brakes!” from the back seat at every brush with disaster, Trish and I mooned the other travelers on the George Washington Bridge. That was the same night I was going to get Anne Kursinski, a long time hero, to sign my copy of her book. Instead, she broke her collarbone in a fall in the Grand Prix.