These days "road rage" is hot topic. Consider a day I had recently. It was the day before I left for Daytona, and I had an overwhelming number of things to finish. That morning El Nino had finally overwhelmed our roof. A camera I'd just bought for the trip wasn't working, and the maker's customer-service people didn't seem to care. The battery in my wife's car had chosen that day to become reluctant. By the time I'd dealt with those pleasures, I was late for a meeting. Naturally, I got behind the president of the local Speed Kills chapter, who apparently felt that anything over 60 percent of the speed limit was an affront to man and nature. It would have been easy to go psycho on her. Instead I converted my annoyance to amusement by shouting to myself in my helmet, "It's the pedal on the right!" When she finally decided to stop completely and get out of the way, I didn't get a half mile before a bozoid in a Buick attempted to bunt the Yamaha and myself across the median. I could have loudly raised questions about his ancestry, and I considered directing him to a Remedial Driver Clinic when he pulled up next to me at a light shortly thereafter, instead I just ignored him.