Credit to unknown author: Going where you don't belong, I decided long ago, is the root of all misery and the soul of all adventure. For instance,if you jump out of an airplane and find that your parachute doesn't open, you realize very quickly that your problem is much more basic than a malfunctioning silk canopy; the real problem is you are 5000 feet off the ground and falling through space. That is ,you are in a place you don't belong. Or if you are a Formula One driver and you hit some oil in a very high speed curve, say in the Karussel at Nurburgring, the problem is not so that you've hit oil; the problem is that you are in a very fragile machine going 120 miles per hour. You are- you guessed it- in a Place Where You Don't Belong. If you hadn't gone there you'd be home now. Everything would be all right. There are hundreds of other places people don't belong; mountainsides in the Himalayas, foxholes in foreign countries, 13 foot sailboats in the mid-Atlantic,bars full of drunks,spying in the Kremlin,whorehouses,New York,milking rattlesnakes,hang gliding off El Capitan,shreiking down Bray Hill on an OW31,dodging bulls in Pamplona, consorting with minors, and so on. Allwonderful adventures,but fraught with some degree of peril because you really shouldn't be there. You are more or less asking for it. And if you get it, not much sympathy will be forthcoming. You've gone by your own device to a place without mercy. Sometimes a motorcycle is a place where you don't belong. Like in the winter when the first good blizzard of the year clogs the roads with drifts of blinding snow. Sometimes you find yourself in a place you don't belong not because you are adventurous,but because you haven't got the sense God gave a chipmunk. Because you are,in the words of my third grade teacher,a silly goose. And, yes, because you are dumb as a stump.
