Mt. Hoodwinked
I met a girl in church back in Washington DC. Her name was Tammy and she was from Maine. She told me this story of when she was a bad-girl teen, sowing her wild oats. She snuck out of state and went down to Boston with her equally bad, beautiful, girlfriends and the y got hustled the first day there by a street - c arny . The guy had a little table set up on the sidewalk. He had three walnut shells and a dried up pea. He did the ‘shuffle-and-find-the-pea’ thing enough times to take all the money she had. Then he offered her one last chance to win it back. All she had left was her grandmother’s ring. She lost that too. The underhand is quicker than the eye. Just so you know, this story doesn’t end as crushing and heartbreaking as that one, but the hoodwink principle is the same. It goes like this: One unnamed vintage BMW rider in our group, the one with the view of Mt Hood from his home, takes the back roads home from a trip to the Bonneville Salt Flat...