Observations

A couple more observations from the seat of the ol' eBike, and, following that, the first in a new series.

I've figured out that of speed, range, and minimal exertion, I can have any two of the three. I can go fast for a long way, but I'll be working hard for it. I can go pretty fast with almost no effort, but only for a very short distance. Or I can go for a long way with very little effort, but I'll be going very slowly. The last one is the option I lean towards most in my commute.
I've found the best way to optimize battery life and assist while not making the motor overheat is to take a little bit of assist nearly all the time. Just a little. No gunning it. Then I adjust the gears to where I'm exerting myself...just a bit. Not too much, but not not at all, either.

There are a few different drivers I hate. Here's the profile of one of them: He approaches fast from behind me, brakes suddenly. Even though the lane is clear to pass, he idles behind me. I can almost see him stewing and fuming. Finally, he gives up, rapidly accelerates in a huff, and cuts close in front of me. You, Mr. Large Black SUV in the Target Parking Lot, win Douche of the Day.

And now the first in what may or may not become a new series: "Peculiar Things I Am A Bit Of A Snob About." Today's peculiar thing: tan lines.
I've little but contempt for the perfect tan - you know: the delicate and even bronze tone with nary a tan line to be seen? Those tans can only be gotten through dyed lotions or bakebeds. Tan in a can. Cancer on a mat. I'm proud of my farmer's tan, dorky as it is. A tan with lines - many lines, uneven lines - means you worked for that tan. You worked outside or you swam or went running out of doors. You spent a week on the river rowing. Hell, you watched a ball game and roasted half of your face. You earned that tan. It's all-natural.
No fake bake, no tan in a can. You earned that sucker. And you girls whose only tan lines are from the strings of your bikini? You missed the train.