“Terri, where’s the BMW shop? I’m meeting Ken there.” Merickk, the country boy whose preferred navigational system resembles literally using the rule of thumb – wet your thumb stick it out in the air to figure out which way the wind blows – wasn’t going to find that shop in the big ugly city of Albuquerque without a little direction. So I grabbed my wallet, shoved my tootsies into my street boots, grabbed my jacket and helmet and decided to show him how to get there. “Devon, I’ll take you as far as the shop, but then I’m turning around and going home to take a nap, okay?” Those words came back to taunt me time and time again all weekend long. What should have been a quick run to the local BMW shop, followed by a nap and girly time at the pedicurist and with my hair stylist turned into an almost 600 mile adventure complete with time with friends, a ticket, a tumble, and a little bit of trouble when the weekend was all said and done. I lay the blame squarely at the booted feet of Ballistic Ken and Merickk. They are solely responsible for all the fun I had....and no, I never did get that pedicure, nap or my hair done.