For the non-motorcycle guy, there's something a little jeering, a bit bullying about the two-wheeled beasts. If it were alive, all that chrome and steel and power would, I think, sneer at me: "What's the matter, pussy-boy? You chicken? Buc-buc-bucaw." Shades of high school come creeping in: wanting to hang with the cool, lawless guys smoking roaches behind the gym, but holding back, not wanting to get into any trouble. Sure, there's a testosterone-fueled, motorcycle-riding rebel buried deep inside my brain, but I'd just as soon keep him there instead of spilling him out onto the pavement, along with quarts of blood and gray matter. Still, even a... More >>>