Bob Bitchin gods off Mount Olympus. As I reached the end of the 40-mile valley, a pillar of sleet started to pummel me with hail as large as ping pong balls pelting me all over. I remember holding my arm up to stop them from hitting my riding glasses and the lightning, first on one side, then on the other, then in front of me, not 100 yards away, and the fierce, ear-shattering thunder that accompanied it. All I could do was to think, well, if there is a God, you sure have pissed the boy off about something. Then, as quick as it started, it stopped. I came over the last little hill in the valley, and there was sunlight on the other side. As I dropped down into the next valley I looked in my rear view mirror. I could hardly believe my eyes. I turned in the seat to check it out. It looked like the gates of hell right behind me. The dark, almost black clouds, pillars of rain and sleet, and lightning everywhere. And I made it. The next small gas station I came to I got to a phone and placed a call to my old lady. Now I ain’t a sniveler, but the more I thought about the hell behind me, and the heaven in front (Las Vegas), I figured that my poor old bod needed a rest. In a few minutes I was back on the road, and my old lady was packing and heading for a plane. It was a 45-minute plane ride for her from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, but I still had 80 miles to go. As I lay having my third member stroked into submissiveness, in a warm room, with rich red carpet and smooth ivory skin just a whisper away, all I can 123
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