The Oracle Rear-ended by SUV

That oughta get your attention.
But, yes, it's true.
I left San Simeon, Calif., on Wednesday morning, heading for my son's place in Portland, Ore.
As is usually the case this time of year, there was heavy fog on the coast - they call it the marine layer out there - so I waited for some of it to burn off and finally got onto the road about 8 a.m. By the time I got 3 miles inland, I was in bright sunshine. I gassed at Paso Robles and picked up Highway 46 east (the road where James Dean bought the farm), then turned on to Highway 41 to link with I-5 for the run north to Oregon.
About 12 miles short of the "5," I came upon a road construction site, pulled up behind three other vehicles and shut off my engine. I watched as a big Ford Club Wagon SUV slowed and stopped behind me. We sat there in the hot California sun about 10 minutes and I entertained myself by setting some pre-set buttons on my XM satellite radio receiver.
Presently, a line of oncoming traffic came through and I noticed the CalTrans pilot truck turning around to lead my group of vehicles through the construction zone.
I started the engine and was about to put the bike in gear when the motorcycle lurched violently forward and to the left, causing the bike to fall over onto its left side and taking me with it.
My first thought was, "Shit! I accidentally tapped the gear shift lever and slammed it into first gear!"
But I knew I hadn't.
When I struggled to my feet, I saw the Ford Club Wagon's left front tire even with the rear wheel of my bike and the driver staring at me with a look of dull surprise.
"You stupid motherfucker! What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shouted, exercising remarkable restraint. "You're looking at about $6,000 worth of damage here, you fucking idiot!"
After all, we're talking about a $19,000 motorcycle slammed to the pavement by some fool who can't control his vehicle.
The driver, a guy in his early 50s named Mike from Lompoc, Calif., explained that he assaulted me with a two-ton SUV because he's handicapped and is using hand controls to drive.
"They're new and I'm not quite familiar with them," he offered.
I am not completely without compassion and I'm truly sorry that Mike has fucked up legs, but the fact remains that he has no business on a public highway if he cannot control his vehicle.
My wife narrowly escaped serious injury and her car was destroyed in March by a woman who was driving while blind (advanced macular degeneration). So I'm developing some strong opinions about sharing the road with people who should only be passengers.
The CalTrans flagger directed us to a spot just off the highway to sort things out and we exchanged insurance information. I determined there were deep gouges in the left saddlebag lid and the left fairing and my gear shift lever was bent to the point where I wondered if I could ride the bike.
I got out my BMW MOA Anonymous Book and determined the nearest dealer was in Fresno and decided to head for their shop.
As I pulled back onto the highway, I asked the flagger, "Please hold that sonofabitch back and don't let him out right behind me."
He grinned and gave me the thumbs-up signal.
Up at I-5, I stopped at a gas station and phoned my wife and BMW of Fresno. I got directions to the shop and was greeted with warmth and concern when I rode in.
The secretary took my helmet and jacket and stuck a diet cola in my hand while the service manager inspected my bike. He straightened the bent gear shift lever and also discovered that my right saddlebag was jammed forward, having apparently taken some of the force of the collision. It appeared that a portion of the mounting rail that the bag mount grips was broken away, so he gave me a tie-down strap to secure it, in case it tried to leave the bike at speed.
I decided to abort the ride to Portland and make for home, so as to handle the insurance claim, so I headed up Highway 99, focused on a Motel 6 room at Auburn, Calif., just northeast of Sacramento on I-80.
I got about a third of the way to Sacramento when I came upon a miles-long traffic jam caused by a flaming crash. Not willing to sit in the 96-degree heat, I exited the freeway and used dead reckoning to pick my way west over county and state highways to I-5.
I finally reached the motel about 8 p.m., completely fried from the day's events. All I wanted was to use the toilet, take a shower and fall into bed.
Given the way things had gone that day, it should have come as no surprise when I flushed the toilet and it backed up and overflowed onto the bathroom floor.
I phoned the front desk and reported the development, expecting assurance that (a) I would be given a new room or (b) a maintenance person was on the way to plunge the toilet and clean the floor.
"Come down to the desk and get the plunger," the desk clerk said.
"You expect me to plunge my own toilet?" I asked, incredulously.
"Well, I'm the only one here and I can't leave the desk," she replied.
So I got the fucking plunger and cleared the clog - which housekeeping should have detected when they made up the room after the previous occupant(s) left - and then got the mop and bucket and mopped up the water from the tile floor.
When I returned the mop and bucket, I told the clerk, "You know, I think I should get some consideration on my bill for this. This is hardly the advertised Motel 6 experience."
"Well, everyone just asks for the plunger..." she said, letting me know that there would be no bill adjustment.
"Okay, I'll take it up at the corporate level," I promised her and stalked off to take my badly needed shower.
And I still have a sore back and neck from getting whacked by Mike's SUV.